









































































































































































































THE CROOKS* SHEPHERD 




























THE 

CROOKS’ 

HERHERD 


By 

Seldon Truss 

M 


Boston 1936 New York 

LOTHROP, LEE AND SHEPARD 
COMPANY 



c 













■ \n% 





Copyright, 1936, by 


LOTHROP, LEE AND SHEPARD COMPANY v 

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be re¬ 
produced in any form without permission in writing 
from the publisher, except by a reviewer who wishes 
to quote brief passages in connection with a review 
written for inclusion in magazine or newspaper. 


Published September, 1936 


PRINTED IN THE UNITED STATES OF AMERICA 





\ 


\ 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 










I 






* 

I 


















4 


Chapter I 


The Honorable Philadelphia Hemstone heard the 
loud trill of the telephone bell at her elbow without moving 
a muscle of her hard old face. Martha, the general maid, 
came clumping all the way from the kitchen to answer 
the summons, for nothing would ever induce Miss Hem- 
stone to do so herself. She regarded the telephone as an 
essential but menial instrument for the direct use of serv¬ 
ants only. 

“It’s his lordship, ma’am,” Martha said, wide-eyed with 
surprise. 

Miss Hemstone’s features grew still harder. 

“My compliments to Lord Harnley, Martha, and I am 
unable to speak to him.” 

The message was duly repeated. 

“His lordship says he’d be glad if you’d change your 
mind, ma’am.” 

“I am not in the habit,” retorted Miss Hemstone grimly, 
“of changing my mind.” 

The maid hesitated. 

“Sounds ’n a rare to-do, ma’am. Worried about some¬ 
thing. I’d say—” She hesitated again. 

3 


4 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

Miss Hemstone’s lips tightened. No further sound issued 
from them. From her lap she picked up the newspaper 
she had been reading. 

“I see,” she remarked with complete detachment, “that 
another convict has been allowed to escape. The man¬ 
agement of our prisons is a national disgrace.” 

Softly, Martha replaced the telephone receiver and hur¬ 
ried from the room. As the door closed Miss Hemstone 
laid down the paper and stared through the low latticed 
window across the village street. The late afternoon sun 
lent a pleasant hue to the cottage walls opposite, and the 
old postman’s gray beard looked quite golden. It had 
been a warm day for October, even in Devon, and the 
tousle-headed school children who romped noisily—too 
noisily for Miss Hemstone—still wore the print frocks 
of summer. 

Altogether the scene should have been pleasant to Miss 
Philadelphia Hemstone, spinster of the parish of Bishops 
Takyll, but her bitterness of soul had long since destroyed 
the gentler emotions. Her mind saw only the figure of 
Edward, Lord Harnley, the brother who had frustrated 
her life, standing like a monstrous shadow in her path. 
Something grown evil out of the fermentation of hate, al¬ 
though people would describe Lord Harnley as just a bad- 
tempered misanthrope. People knew that he had discon¬ 
tinued his sister’s allowance so that she was forced to 
leave the Tarn House, her proper habitat, for Delphinium 
Cottage. But people didn’t know why. 

Miss Hemstone picked up the newspaper, adjusted the 
gold-rimmed spectacles firmly on her nose, and began to 
read. The words: BOSSY PARKWELL ESCAPES 
FROM PENTONVILLE GAOL stared at her in bold 
type, but she hardly saw them. Edward had rung up 
after all these years. He had expected to speak to her. 
It was fantastic. He had intimated that some trouble 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 5 

threatened him. Nothing new in that. Between his mean¬ 
ness and his great wealth, trouble always threatened him. 
She recalled those nasty blackmailing cases. 

“Following the escape of William Minser last week y it 
is now reported that Parkwell y the daring safe-breaker , 
who was recently sentenced to five years 1 penal servitude .” 
A movement outside the window caught Miss Hemstone’s 
eye. It was the postman entering her wicket gate. A mo¬ 
ment later Martha entered with a seedsman’s catalogue 
and a letter superscribed in a strangely uncouth hand on 
an envelope of poor quality. At the sight of this writing 
Miss Hemstone’s hand tensed slightly, but that was all. 
She waited till Martha had closed the door before she 
read the contents of the envelope, and then she rang the 
bell. Martha re-entered with a patient sigh. 

“Light the fire, please,” said Miss Hemstone. 

“The fire, ma’am? It’s a nice warm evening—” 

“I said,” repeated Miss Hemstone distinctly, “light 
the fire.” 

Martha resignedly applied a match to the tiny grate. 
It was the first time since spring that this fire had been 
needed and she had been hoping to defer the need till 
longer. The paper ignited reluctantly, the wood show¬ 
ing signs of damp. It took patience and trouble to coax 
a flame. 

When Miss Hemstone was alone again she placed her 
letter on the smoking coals and watched it carefully until 
only the ashes remained. 


Chapter II 


At eleven p.m. silence reigned along the bare passage¬ 
ways and corridors, except for those stirrings and uneasy 
whisperings that are never entirely absent where misery 
and bitterness, repressed or inarticulate by day, find their 
voices in the release of night. In her cell, unlighted save 
for the glimmer that came through the grating over the 
door, Number 103 lay sleepless. She was listening to those 
murmurs as she had listened to them for countless nights 
in the past and would continue to listen until apathy de¬ 
stroyed her soul. Just now those sounds seemed more 
desolating, more impossible to bear. She thrust fingers 
into her ears and turned, praying for the anodyne of 
sleep. 

Then she could hear nothing but the drumming of her 
pulses and the scrapings of coarse sheets as she moved on 
the hard bed. She did not even hear the key turning in 
her cell door. The light streaming in from the passage 
startled her to alertness. 

A wardress entered. 

“Too much noise here, 103. You must be quieter!” 

The girl stared. 


6 


7 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

“I—” she began. 

“Don’t answer me!” said the woman sharply, and then, 
in a low voice, “Here, take this.” 

She thrust a tiny folded piece of paper at the girl 
and turned back through the door. 

“No more of that noise, remember, or I shall be obliged 
to report you.” 

The girl nodded quickly. 

“Yes. I—I am sorry.” 

The door closed. The key turned. In the dim light the 
occupant of the cell stared at the scrap in her hand. She 
knew that some of the women officers could be “sweetened” 
to bring in messages from outside, but this was the first 
time anyone had sent her a message. Only friends did 
that. She had no friends. 

It was almost impossible to see the writing so she 
stood up on her bed in order to catch the feeble rays that 
came through the grid. There was no superscription to 
the folded and gummed-over scrap of very thin paper— 
so thin as to be almost tissue. Inside was written: 

Within an hour you will be at liberty. Make 
no preparations. Confide in no one. This paper 
is soluble. Eat it. 

Number 103 gasped, and, for the first time since she 
could remember, smiled. But it was a travesty of a smile. 
“Liberty?” She re-read the message and then her lips 
twisted into perplexity and dull anger. Was this a pitiful 
hoax designed to get her into trouble? The discovery of 
this scrap would certainly bring trouble to the woman who 
had conveyed it too. Trouble all round. But if the sender 
meant to involve Number 103 in trouble, why these in¬ 
structions about destroying the paper? The girl stared 
and stared until her eyes grew weary with the strain in 
that feeble light. u Make no preparations. Confide in no 


8 


THE CROOKS' SHEPHERD 

one” Was that likely! What preparations could she 
make? In whom confide? 

No, she would ignore the thing; dismiss it from her 
mind. But the paper mustn’t be seen, whatever happened. 
Crumpling it up, she thrust it into her mouth. Almost 
instantly it began to dissolve, like a flake of gelatine. 

The last thing she remembered was hammering with 
her fists on the cell door with screams of pain. 

Her senses came back to her with an aching head and 
the intolerable glare of an electric light in her eyes. Some¬ 
one swiveled down the lampshade and there came the 
sound of outpoured liquid. A man’s voice, preceded by 
a queer little gasp of indrawn breath said: 

“Give her this.” 

She drank because she lacked the will to do otherwise, 
and the bitter, odd-tasting liquid revived her enormously. 
Able now to distinguish her surroundings she realized 
that she lay in a bed. Not the hard couch of her prison 
cell but luxurious coil springs and down pillows and figured 
walnut. And the vellum-shaded reading lamp at her side 
threw its rays on to a silken eiderdown that gleamed opu¬ 
lently. The walls were lost in semi-obscurity but the glow 
of an electric radiator suffused an ornate ceiling. When, 
presently, someone moved, the footfalls were deadened 
by a carpet that was manifestly thick. 

The footfalls halted by the bedside and a face gazed 
down critically. It was a woman of perhaps thirty years 
of age, very well dressed in outdoor clothes, with the as¬ 
sured carriage that goes with sartorial smartness. The 
girl returned the gaze with aching, wondering eyes, and 
the woman smiled. 

“You see,” she said. “We have done it. Are you feel¬ 
ing better?” 

The girl tried to nod but the spears of pain that stabbed 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 9 

her eyes made the gesture a feeble one. She heard the 
man’s gasping voice again, speaking from the obscurity 
behind. 

“Wait a little, Bernice. Another ten minutes, I think.” 

The women drew away silently, while the girl tried to 
force her numbed brain back to clarity. Endless time 
seemed to elapse before the man’s voice sounded again. 

“Can you speak now?” 

The girl’s reply came faintly, but with distinctness. 
“Yes.” 

“Excellent! And naturally you would like me to ex¬ 
plain your very curious translation to these surroundings 
when your proper habitat is a—prison cell.” 

A chuckle followed the hurried words, and then the 
man drew another breath. 

“It is necessary for me to be brief, because I have 
other calls upon my time.” Again there came that curious 
inhalation. “Briefly, then, we began by administering a 
non-lethal, but somewhat painful poison. You perhaps 
recall the little—note we sent you by a wardress who was 
not too—troubled by the finer scruples?” 

The girl turned to face the speaker, but the features 
were indeterminate in the shadow. An old man, she 
thought. 

“Yes,” she said, after a pause. “I remember. It said 
that I should be at liberty.” 

“Quite so,” the man’s voice continued jerkily. “We 
have—fulfilled that promise, incredible as it seems. The 
note, of course, was too—dangerous a document for any 
—convict to possess. Very properly you took our ad¬ 
vice to—swallow it. Foreseeing this we impregnated the 
paper with a—drug which it is unnecessary to—particu¬ 
larize, but which, I fear, caused you some little discomfort 
and even—pain. As a result you cried out for help. You 
became insensible. The—prison doctor, summoned from 





10 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

his well-earned rest at this unreasonable hour, diagnosed 
—more or less correctly—acute gastritis and ordered you 
to the hospital building. Having issued his instructions 
the long-suffering medico proceeded to the hospital in 
order to—prepare his restoratives. Two orderlies, mean¬ 
while, were detailed with a stretcher to convey you thither. 
All this we anticipated. Does the matter now become— 
plainer to you?” 

The girl shook her head listlessly, and the speaker went 
on, his every sentence punctuated by the odd series of in¬ 
drawn gulps of air, as though he found the utterance of 
words veritable agony. 

“No? One must make allowances for the sub-normal 
state of your senses. That is evident. You are aware, how¬ 
ever, that in order to reach the hospital building these 
orderlies would be obliged to cross the—prison yard. The 
distance is no more than fifty paces—but enough for our 
—purpose. A car is parked in a convenient, quiet by-street 
outside the prison wall. The night is dark and the sur¬ 
rounding thoroughfares at that late hour very ill-lit. The 
orderlies, complete with stretcher, emerge en route for 
the hospital building. Our emissaries—provided with 
scarves heavily soaked in ether and chloroform—make 
short work of the orderlies. They are swiftly conveyed 
to the boiler house and locked in. You, needless to say, are 
carried over the wall and—transported here in my car. 
How much time elapsed before the—prison doctor became 
impatient of your non-arrival in the ward can only be 
a matter of conjecture—but it was long enough for our 
purpose. Even now I imagine the fact of your escape has 
not been grasped—and will not be grasped until the dis¬ 
covery of the missing stretcher bearers—. In short, a 
pretty little mystery confronts your late custodians—and 
if your sense of humor is as acute as mine you will ap¬ 
preciate the situation.” 





THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 11 

The voice paused, as if exhausted. But no answer came 
from the bed. Presently the man continued, in a lower 
key. 

“Human reactions are certainly incalculable. Failing 
humor one would at least anticipate—some measure of 
gratitude.” 

The girl raised herself suddenly on one elbow and 
gazed in the direction of the voice. “Do you expect that 
for—for deferring the price I must pay?” 

“No. But I expect you to resent—paying the price 
—of someone else’s crime.” 

A deep sigh came from the girl’s lips. She saw him 
now vaguely, his smooth white face wrinkled round 
the eyes, under a wide, soft-brimmed hat. He was lean¬ 
ing forward, into the circle of dim light. 

“Can you see me, young lady? You have never seen 
me before. But you will see me again—unless you insist— 
on paying that price.” 

From the background a figure moving across the room 
picked up something from the mantelpiece. There came 
the click of an automatic lighter and the woman’s face 
was ghostily revealed as she lit a cigarette. The reddened 
lips curved pleasantly. 

“Did you look at me also?” she asked softly, as another 
click extinguished the little flame. “Do we not inspire 
confidence? Can you not believe that we are your good 
friends?” 

The girl sank back again wearily, moving her head 
from side to side on the pillow. “How can I believe— 
anything? I shall be punished for escaping. It is not 
friendship to bring that upon me.” 

“You will not be—punished for escaping,” the man re¬ 
torted with gusty emphasis, “because it is evident that 
you were a—passive agent during our ingenious maneu¬ 
vers. You can therefore face the—prospect of returning 


12 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

to jail with equanimity. But before deciding upon such 
incredible quixotism you will do me the—favor of hearing 
still further what I have to say. 5 ’ He turned for an in¬ 
stant towards the figure in the shadow. 

“A little more of that restorative, if you please, Bernice. 
We shall require the fullest—attention of our guest for 
the next few minutes.” 

Again the bitter liquid was set against the girl’s lips. 
Lethargically she drank, and the odd-tasting drug seemed 
to stimulate her brain to an acute comprehension. 

“Let me very briefly recount certain facts,” proceeded 
the man’s voice. “It is unnecessary for the moment to 
refer to your identity until you have decided whether 
or not you will make a—fight to regain it. For the present 
you are a cipher, a unit, with no individuality—class or 
division—from those other units who form your only 
contacts with human beings—if one may employ such a 
term. As number one hundred and three you have—en¬ 
dured a living death for nearly a year. I believe that the 
crime for which you—suffer this punishment is a crime 
you—did not commit. Am I right?” 

A barely perceptible nod came from the girl. She did 
not answer, though it was evident that her whole atten¬ 
tion was concentrated on the man who spoke. He had curi¬ 
ous, screwed-up eyes, as though he found as much diffi¬ 
culty in focusing them as he found in speech. 

“You were employed,” he went on, “as private secretary 
to—Lord Harnley. You were convicted of an attempt to 
extort very large sums of money from Lord Harnley— 
by means of blackmail. It was alleged by the—prosecution 
that owing to your confidential position certain facts 
about your employer’s—association with a certain woman 
came to your knowledge—and that you attempted to make 
use of these facts to your own advantage. Am I still 
correct?” 


13 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

Again the girl nodded. 

“The principal evidence at the trial—consisted of let¬ 
ters alleged to have been written by you from an accom¬ 
modation address—and the testimony of Lord Harnley 
himself. In your defense you denied these charges—de¬ 
clared the letters to be the work of an enemy. You could 
not, however—indicate any such enemy and you failed 
—to refute Lord Harnley’s evidence. The culmination 
of a long and apparently fair trial was a sentence of five 
years’—penal servitude. These are the bare facts of your 
case. Now we will leave—facts and come to conjecture. 
I am going to assume that you did not—write those black¬ 
mailing letters, and that the actual writer was someone— 
else. Suppose I offer to assist you to discover the identity 
of that someone—on a reasonable condition. Would you, 
Number 103, still prefer to return to jail—and continue 
the expiation of a crime—which you did not commit?” 

The concluding words were jerked out with a final 
effort at clear enunciation. As the speaker leant back in 
his chair his face returned to the shadow whence it had 
come. Beyond him the automatic lighter spluttered again 
and a fresh cigarette glowed. Silence hung. 

The girl never stirred, her eyes staring into the gloom 
as though at inscrutable fate. Her mind flitted back to 
that gray horror of stone walls and barred windows and 
locked doors. Coarse food, coarse clothes and bedding, 
coarse language. She suffered anew those torments as 
her body lay at ease in silk. She knew that the trap had 
been cunningly set and that she would not be able to 
escape it. 

“You speak of a condition. Tell me what that is,” 
she parried. 

“I will not tell you—unless you agree.” 

“I am to do blindly—whatever you wish?” 

“Yes.” 


14 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

“To prove my innocence of one crime you will make 
me commit another?” 

“No.” 

“How am I to believe that? How am I to believe that 
you have any power to help me?” 

“I will answer those questions with another. How am 
I to know that you will not—play me false!” A chuckle 
followed the words. “You see—there are two sides to 
every bargain.” 

For the first time, the girl smiled faintly. 

“If I am caught—” she began, and left the sentence 
unfinished. 

“You will not be caught—if you follow my instruc¬ 
tions.” 

“You are very confident.” 

“Entirely confident. Have I not given you enough 
proof of my capabilities?” 

The girl smiled again. 

“Yes, it was wonderful, to pluck me out of prison 
like that!” 

“And comparatively simple, you will understand—to 
return you there. To save you the fatigue of a journey— 
we could drive you to the prison gates. I trust, however, 
that it will not be—necessary.” 

The man leant forward again. Once more the light 
touched his smooth features and those curiously screwed- 
up eyes. Behind him only the glowing tip of a cigarette 
indicated that a third person was present. 

The girl’s smile now became transformed into some¬ 
thing alive and eager. Her eyes, gentian blue, sparkled 
like sapphires; excitement danced in her cheeks. She sat 
up and held out her hands to the man in shadow. 

“No,” she said. “It will not be necessary!” 



Chapter III 


Michael Chillaton unfolded the letter in his hand 
and held it out to the Assistant-Commissioner. “I think 
you’ve met my uncle, Lord Harnley.” 

The Assistant-Commissioner smiled. 

“I have had that pleasure,” he answered, and bent his 
attention to the letter. 

“My dear Michael,” he read out, “you will be sur^ 
prised to receive a communication from me, because our 
relations are not cordial. Whether that regrettable state 
of affairs is your fault or mine needn’t be discussed now, 
though my opinion about your perverse action in seeking 
to grab a living in the workshops of Wolverhampton rather 
than in occupying yourself with matters more suitable to 
your position as my heir, remains the same—” 

“What on earth,” queried the Assistant-Commissioner 
stonily, “has all this to do with me?” 

Michael grimaced apologetically. 

“If you wouldn’t mind reading a bit further, sir—” 

The Assistant-Commissioner raised his brows with the 
exaggerated patience of one who considers his valuable 
time is being trifled with. He resumed: 

15 


16 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

“My object in writing to you now, is, incredibly enough, 
to enlist your assistance, because I believe that my safety 
is being threatened and because it is obviously futile to 
expect any intelligent help from the fossilized institution 
called Scotland Yard, presided over by morons such as 
Tankerville, who may be an Assistant-Commissioner, 
but—” 

A rich empurplement suffused Colonel Tankerville’s 
face. 

“Er—I’m afraid I’d forgotten that part, sir. Better 
skip it, I think—” 

The Assistant-Commissioner’s jaw set grimly. 

“On the contrary, young man, I now propose to read 
every word,” he answered, and repeated in a voice that 
cracked slightly, “. . . presided over by MORONS such 
as Tankerville, who may be an Assistant-Commissioner, 
but whose natural abilities would better qualify him for 
the post of doorkeeper at a suburban cinema— Ha! Very 
nice! I am obliged to you, Mr. Chillaton, for bringing 
me this enlightening document!” 

The harassed Michael blew his nose with unnecessary 
care. 

“At all events, sir, it is obvious that I don’t agree with 
him, or I shouldn’t be here,” he ventured with belated 
tact. “Do you mind reading on a bit?” 

“Really, I don’t see why I should read any more of this 
appalling tosh,” commented Colonel Tankerville grimly. 
But he continued in a sort of snarl: 

“The danger that threatens me is something that has 
been materializing ever since the disgraceful affair of my 
late secretary, Christine Abbott, who was, as you may 
recall, sent to penal servitude for blackmailing me, al¬ 
though Scotland Yard, by committing every conceivable 
blunder, very nearly let her slip through their hands. 
I am now convinced that that affair was merely the prelude 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 17 

to an elaborate and carefully laid plot which is actively 
incubating at this moment, though I do not profess to 
understand its motive. When I tell you, however, that my 
house has been broken into, without any apparent robbery 
taking place you will understand my disquietude. A man 
of my position has many enemies, and were it not for 
Stopford who sleeps in an adjoining room with a loaded 
revolver I might not be writing this now. But although 
Stopford is a tried and loyal employee, he does not pos¬ 
sess the intelligence and subtlety necessary to disclose 
what is behind these sinister manoeuvres, and I give you 
credit, at least, for possessing those qualities to some ex¬ 
tent. Also I believe that you are honest. Do me the favor, 
therefore, of taking an early train and acquaint me of your 
proposed time of arrival at Takyll Place. I ask you, on 
no account to fail me. Your affectionate uncle, 

Edward Harnley.” 

The Assistant-Commissioner handed back the letter 
with a shrug. 

“A very hysterical epistle,’ 5 he commented sourly. “Lord 
Harnley’s eccentricities are well known, I believe. Ap¬ 
parently, they include hallucinations.” 

Michael Chillaton folded the letter and pocketed it. 

“To suggest,” the Assistant-Commissioner went on 
coldly, “that the Abbott blackmailing affair carries any 
deeper implications, is, in my opinion, arrant nonsense. 
If Lord Harnley wants protection he will have to per¬ 
suade the local police that it is justified. We cannot inter¬ 
vene without an application through the Home Office from 
the Chief Constable of the County. It looks more to me as 
if a male nurse were indicated. No doubt, however, you 
acted properly in seeking my advice.” 

Michael nodded uneasily. 

“It seemed the obvious thing to do, sir. I knew that 


18 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

you and my uncle were—er—acquainted, and with an 
hour or two to spare in town before going down to Bishops 
Takyll I thought I’d better ask your opinion. Glad you 
think it’s all poppycock, sir. I’d best be getting along.” 

The door opened and a massively built person with a 
lugubrious expression and drooping moustache entered. 
Observing that the Assistant-Commissioner had a young 
gentleman with him, the person prepared to withdraw, 
when Colonel Tankerville checked him. 

“Come in, Gidleigh. This is Mr. Chillaton, a nephew 
of Lord Harnley. Mr. Chillaton—Chief-Inspector Gid¬ 
leigh. You remember that Abbott case, Gidleigh, hey? 
Well, what is it?” 

The newcomer returned Michael’s greeting without 
interest. He laid an open telegram on his chief’s desk. 
The drooping moustache seemed to droop more dourly as 
he straightened himself. As he read, Colonel Tankerville’s 
eyes bulged a little. Having completed his perusal the 
Colonel’s eyes bulged still more. A burst of consternation 
came through his pursed lips. 

“Good God! Another!” 

“Yes, sir,” the Chief Inspector nodded with a kind of 
sad satisfaction. “Another example, sir, of the amazing 
efficiency of our prison system, sir. The third in a month, 
sir.” 

The Assistant-Commissioner breathed heavily. 

“Neyland!” he muttered. “Good God, this is mon¬ 
strous!” 

“Yes, sir,” the Chief Inspector agreed, still exhibiting 
a morbid pleasure. “You will recall, sir, that it took 
a little over a year to pull in Neyland. He was sentenced 
to seven years’ penal servitude. He serves seven months 
and two days precisely and we are now requested to catch 
him all over again.” The Chief Inspector gulped and 
shot a resentful glance at Michael as though that young 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 19 

gentleman must be in some way involved. Michael tact¬ 
fully rose. The Assistant-Commissioner raised his hand 
with a gesture of irritation at the movement. Michael 
sat down again. 

“This is really appalling,” Colonel Tankerville scowled. 
“You had better warn all London stations at once, Gid- 
leigh. Neyland is dangerous. He’ll make for London, most 
likely. Either that or one of the ports. He’s a much 
more difficult type to work against than Minser or Park- 
well.” 

The Chief Inspector shrugged. “We’re about as near 
to catching Minser and Parkwell as we were two weeks 
ago, sir. And that’s nowhere at all. Not so much as a 
smell. But compared with Cliff Neyland, I’d call them 
child’s play. Perhaps we’d better wait until they let out 
a few more convicts and then we can call in the Army.” 
Gidleigh stared gloomily out of the window. His superior 
frowned massively. 

“There seems no doubt,” he said, “that these escapes 
have some connection. In Paunceforte’s opinion—” An 
inarticulate sound came from his subordinate. 

“Well, Gidleigh?” the Assistant-Commissioner de¬ 
manded ominously. 

“Nothing, sir, nothing. Excuse me.” 

Colonel Tankerville’s mustache bristled with an¬ 
noyance. 

“I was about to say that Paunceforte, at my invita¬ 
tion, has been looking into these escapes. It stands to 
reason that given a clever outside accomplice and the 
establishment of some means of communication any pro¬ 
spective escaper has a chance of success. When a convict 
makes his dash for freedom with no one to harbor or 
disguise him, re-capture is the certain penalty. We must 
postulate, then, the existence of an extremely well- 
informed outside accomplice to organize the affair. 


20 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

Paunceforte takes the view that the organizer of each 
of these recent escapes is the same individual.” 

An ostentatious sigh came from Chief Inspector Gid- 
leigh. 

“May I be allowed to remark, sir, that nobody at the 
Yard disputes that suggestion. Also that the existence of 
this unidentified escape organizer is well known in criminal 
circles. The Crooks’ Shepherd, as they call him, is re¬ 
garded, sir, with affection and hope by every old lag who 
does a new stretch.” 

The Assistant-Commissioner drummed his knuckles on 
the desk. 

“Possibly. You may be right, Gidleigh. It does not 
alter the fact that Paunceforte arrived at his conclusions 
quite independently of underworld gossip. He is, I am glad 
to say, unhampered by the traditional mental processes, 
let us call them, of too many of our policemen, and he has 
developed a theory of some interest regarding these es¬ 
capes.” The Assistant-Commissioner warming to his sub¬ 
ject, turned to Michael. The movement was subconscious 
and the young man divined with some amusement that he 
was about to be regaled with a personal enthusiasm in 
which the Chief Inspector had no share. 

“It is a matter of great regret to me,” pursued the 
Assistant-Commissioner, “that we are unable to avail our¬ 
selves officially of this remarkable young man’s services. 
At an unusually early age Paunceforte took his degree 
as B.A. He has since become a profound student of crim¬ 
inology. Indeed, I doubt whether there is a single work 
on the subject with which he is unfamiliar. Unfortunately, 
Paunceforte wears glasses. Unfortunately, also, he is af¬ 
flicted with distressing handicaps that disqualify him for 
a regular appointment at Scotland Yard, but I am glad to 
say I have been able to secure his services as an unofficial 
auxiliary.” 


21 


THE CROOKS' SHEPHERD 

Inspector Gidleigh fidgeted. Michael Chillaton main¬ 
tained a solemn exterior with difficulty, but he was ready 
enough to concede the Assistant-Commissioner’s point of 
view. New blood was probably desirable. 

“Paunceforte,” pursued Colonel Tankerville, tapping 
his chair arm by way of emphasis, “believes that the or¬ 
ganizer of these escapes is a person of unusual ability, with 
powers that suggest him to be highly educated. In short, 
of a very superior type to the common run of criminals— 
Did you speak, Gidleigh?” 

“No, sir.” The detective forced an unnatural calm to 
cover his irritation and boredom. “Nothing of any con¬ 
sequence, sir.” 

Colonel Tankerville leant back in his chair with an 
urbane smile. 

“Let us have your remarks, Gidleigh, by all means. 
We are anxious to hear other theories.” 

“Theories, sir? I’ve no theories. Only these master 
criminals don’t seem to come my way—outside of detective 
novels. That’s only in twenty-five years’ experience, sir, 
of course—” 

Colonel Tankerville smiled, a little less urbanely. 

“I admit, Gidleigh, that I have also not encountered 
such a type. That is not to say, however, that it doesn’t 
exist, which is where your too rigid dogmatism may lead 
you astray. However, do me the favor of listening a little 
longer. Paunceforte’s theory, briefly, is as follows: First, 
that these escapes, which I will presently enumerate, are 
the work of one man. Second, that this mysterious organ¬ 
izer has a very good reason for the selection of his sub¬ 
jects.” Here the Assistant-Commissioner picked up a type¬ 
written sheet from his desk. 

“The first of these three escapers—assuming a connec¬ 
tion—was William Minser, who has spent about half 
his long life in prison for forgery. A clever forger, but 



22 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

not clever enough to remain for long at liberty. He walked 
clean out of Wandsworth jail in the clothes of a prison 
visitor, who was subsequently discovered chloroformed in 
Minser’s cell. How the chloroform got there, with other 
details of this escape, are still the subject of inquiry, but 
it looks as if a certain amount of bribery were involved, 
a process which in this country has hitherto been rare. 

“The next case is that of Parkwell, who was confined 
in Pentonville jail. Parkwell is a locksmith by trade and 
very much a locksmith by profession. That is, a clever 
safe-breaker. The escape of this man is an example of 
remarkable daring following a very carefully arranged 
plot. During exercise in the prison yard a rope-ladder 
was flung over the wall from the outside and as the 
convict Parkwell made a dash for it, half a dozen others 
crowded round in such a manner as to impede the guards, 
while giving the impression of assisting them. Beyond the 
wall was a waiting car, into which the fugitive leapt, to 
be driven away at high speed. By the time the alarm 
had been given the car was lost sight of. So much for 
Parkwell.” 

Colonel Tankerville laid down the list. 

“The latest convict to escape is the subject of the tele¬ 
gram just received by Superintendent Gidleigh. Clifford 
Neyland, an actor, and a man of education, seems to have 
broken away from a working party during a moor storm. 
The fact that he got clear proves beyond all doubt the 
existence of an accomplice, and unless we assume a co¬ 
incidence it is reasonably certain that the accomplice 
is our friend the escape organizer.” 

Colonel Tankerville rapped his desk with sudden anger. 
He swung round on the Superintendent. 

“This is an insupportable state of affairs, Gidleigh! It 
has got to stop!” 

Chief Inspector Gidleigh smiled his sad smile. 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 23 

“Fortunately, sir, we cannot be held accountable. Per¬ 
haps Mr. Paunceforte could stop it.” 

The Assistant-Commissioner glared at his subordinate. 
It was evident that only a very privileged official could 
behave like Gidleigh and get away with it. Michael con¬ 
cealed a grin. 

“I certainly propose to return to Paunceforte’s theory,” 
retorted Colonel Tankerville sharply. “In these three 
escaped convicts we have the nucleus of a very formidable 
gang. Minser, the expert forger, Parkwell, the safe- 
breaker, whose arrest, I may remind you, was largely 
due to Paunceforte’s efforts, and, lastly, Clifford Neyland, 
one of the most ingenious perpetrators of fraud we have 
ever dealt with. Assuming that these three men are united 
by the individual who set them at liberty, he is, of course, 
in a position to command absolute obedience to his orders 
on pain of exposing them to the police. In Paunceforte’s 
opinion, the composition of this gang ought to give us a 
line on their objective. Personally, I agree.— Yes, what 
is it?” 

For the door had opened and a messenger entered. 

“Phone call just through, sir, from the Governor of 
Hollbury.” 

Colonel Tankerville’s brows went up. 

“Hollbury!” 

“Yes, sir. The Governor reports the escape of a convict 
named Christine Abbott.” 

Michael Chillaton glanced quickly at Gidleigh. The 
Chief-Inspector was no longer yawning. 


Chapter IV 


Somebody threw a rolled-up scrap of paper—chocolate 
tinfoil wrappings—out of a window of the Western Ex¬ 
press. The paper fell into a certain back garden of the 
inner London suburbs, where a kindly looking, elderly 
man was pottering over a row of sooty geranium plants. 
The man straightened his back and stared reprovingly at 
the passing train, he failed to recognize the culprit. In a 
moment the train had curled out of night. 

Carefully adjusting a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles 
the geranium enthusiast unrolled the scrap of paper and 
discovered that it contained a crumpled fragment of type¬ 
written notepaper. Thoughtfully, he placed the scrap in 
his dingy waistcoat pocket. Something like a sigh of regret 
escaped him. 

Four hours later the Western Express steamed into 
Barnborough Junction, whence, divided, it would proceed 
in the diverse directions of Allenscombe and Mortford. 
At Barnborough, among other uninteresting passengers, 
a bespectacled youth, clad as a “hiker,” a gray-haired man 
loosely clad in the country-gentry fashion, and a woman 
smartly clad, alighted. 


24 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 25 

The gray-haired man was welcomed by a pretty girl 
whose physical immaturity was offset by a somewhat stag¬ 
gering poise and assurance. She was leading a remarkably 
large bloodhound and this trio received a special grin of 
recognition from the ticket collector as they passed through 
the gate. The smartly clad lady found her escort in an 
elegant gentleman in new plus fours and the old school tie. 
The couple awakened no interest or recognition from the 
ticket collector. Outside the station they entered a rakish 
blue and chromium coupe. In a shabby old Buick touring 
car, the gray-haired man at the wheel, the girl at his side 
and the bloodhound baying happily on the rear seat, drove 
away. The blue and chromium owner threw an amused 
glance at the Buick as he stepped on the starter. At this 
moment the hiker, unnoticed, and slightly flustered, 
emerged from the station. He stood irresolutely; then he 
approached Blue-and-Chromium hesitatingly. 

“I say, 5 ’ he spoke with a slight stammer, “I suppose 
you aren’t g-going anywhere near B-Bishops Takyll?” 

The man answered promptly. 

“Quite right. We’re not. Sorry!” 

Blue-and-Chromium glided away. The hiker turned his 
gaze doubtfully to the shabby Buick. After a moment’s 
hesitation he appeared to pluck up courage. 

“Eh?” The gray-haired man looked round. “Well— 
er—as a matter of fact we are. That is, we can drop you 
within a mile of the village, if that’s any use.” He jerked 
his head towards the hound, whose dewlaps glistened wetly. 
“Better jump in behind!” 

The hiker muttered his thanks and gripped the door 
handle, but a deep growl made him hesitate. He blinked 
nervously behind his spectacles. 

The girl spoke sharply, “Shut up, Hangman! Quiet!” 
Then she parted her carmined young lips at the young 
man in a malicious smile. 


26 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

“He’s all right, really. Get in!” 

Gingerly, the young man complied, edging as far into 
the corner as possible. For an unpleasant moment the 
hound seemed to brood over the bare knees that gleamed 
so temptingly. With another smothered growl he settled 
back on his haunches. The Buick lurched forward. 

Michael Chillaton approached the village of Bishops 
Takyll at dusk. The date happened to coincide with the 
termination of Daylight Saving so that instead of the visual 
treat he had promised himself after six years of absence 
he perceived disgustedly that he would arrive in darkness. 
Only an exile born and brought up in that particular cor¬ 
ner of Devon can appreciate Michael’s regret. 

The road turned and twisted as Devon lanes do, drop¬ 
ping almost sheer to a tiny stone bridge across swift run¬ 
ning water. Beyond it climbed steeply, twisting to the 
right, wriggling to the left. It was already dark under 
the trees and Michael switched on the headlights. Up a 
narrow and tortuous acclivity he shot, braking sharply at 
the summit to veer almost at a right angle. Thence for a 
mile of incredibly beautiful going he drove until the lane 
ran into the secondary road that connects Bishops Takyll 
with Barnborough and beyond that, the broad highway to 
Exeter. Here Michael stepped on the gas. Three miles 
more, and he would arrive. An oncoming car sent its head¬ 
lights blindingly into his eyes; dimming his own lights he 
slowed down. The other swooped past him leaving Michael 
blinking angrily at being forced to a snail’s pace. For the 
next two hundred yards he drove slowly, almost missing 
the little gray lodge beside the tall wrought-iron gates that 
formed the principal entrance way to Takyll Place. 

Swinging the car round he brought it to a standstill and 
gave a couple of toots on the horn. The summons brought 
a stout, aproned woman waddling out of the lodge. Shad- 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 27 

ing her eyes from the car lamps the woman approached 
Michael. 

“His lordship isn’t receiving visitors these days, sir. 
I’m sorry, sir, but that’s my orders.” 

Michael smiled. 

“How are the rheumatics, Mrs. Yeo?” 

“Eh, sir!” the woman approached closer. “Why, it’s 
Mr. Michael! I could not see you, sir, what with them 
lights in me eyes! Well, now, it is nice to see you again, 
Mr. Michael, after all these years. But I’m afraid you’ll 
find his lordship very queer, sir. He don’t seem to want 
no company at all, sir, these days. Barring Major Norton 
and the vicar—I suppose he’ll be expecting you, Mr. 
Michael? Well now, it’ll do him a bit of good, I shouldn’t 
wonder, to have some young company with him.” 

She waddled to the massive gates and dragged them 
apart. As Michael drove in she dropped him a quaint, old- 
fashioned little curtsey. 

The drive was the best part of a mile long under densely 
overhanging trees. Countless rabbits scuttled across the 
headlights. It was a hauntingly beautiful vista that opened 
before him with each twist and turn, but Michael found 
himself wondering how long it would be before he would 
weary of the inaction that this visit must entail for him. 
Certainly he wasn’t going to dry nurse Uncle Edward 
Harnley indefinitely. It was difficult, he reflected, to im¬ 
agine Uncle Edward in need of assistance from anyone. 
A stiff-necked, damnably intolerant old boy. About as 
pleasant company as a walrus with indigestion. 

The drive curved to its termination in a wide sweep. 
Bringing the car to rest under an immense stone porch, 
Michael got out to pull the iron bell handle. The double 
doors were opened, after an undue delay, only as far as a 
length of noisy chain would allow them. A man’s face 
peered at him. 


28 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

“This caution seems a bit overdone/’ Michael growled. 
“It is not what I should term a very enthusiastic wel¬ 
come.” 

“Beg pardon, sir,” said the man in a peculiarly shrill 
voice. “His lordship’s orders, sir. His lordship’s instruc¬ 
tions are that no one is to be admitted, sir. Not under no 
circumstances, sir. You’ll excuse me, I’m sure.” 

He began to close the doors, but Michael inserted the 
toe of his right shoe between them. 

“Don’t be a fool! I’m Lord Harnley’s nephew,” he 
snapped. “Go and tell his lordship I’m here, if you won’t 
take my word for it!” 

“Beg pardon, sir. His lordship is out.” 

“Then—curse it! Fetch Stopford!” 

“Beg pardon, sir, Mr. Stopford is out.” 

Michael stared dumbly. 

“Has the whole place gone crazy?” he queried pres¬ 
ently. “Do you seriously expect me to squat on this con¬ 
founded doorstep until somebody has the sense to tell the 
difference between a relative of the family and an armed 
gangster, or whatever it is you’re frightened of? I sup¬ 
pose you don’t even know when his lordship is expected 
back?” 

“No, sir. Very sorry, sir.” 

“Of course not,” Michael agreed bitterly. “You 
wouldn’t. What’s your confounded name?” 

“Orson, sir. A bit new to the job, sir.” The shrill voice 
whined apologetically. 

“You’ve got something to learn, Orson. What time did 
his lordship go out?” 

“A couple of hours ago, sir. For a walk, I understand. 
I ain’t seen ’im yet, sir.” 

“Not seen him?” 

“No, sir. Only just arrived myself.” 

“Oh, you’re as new as that, eh?” Michael stared at the 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 29 

thin white features. “Is there anyone in the place who 
knows I’m expected?” 

“Couldn't say, I’m sure, sir. They’re mostly new serv¬ 
ants, sir—owin’ to his lordship bein’ a bit changeable 
lately. So I understand, if you’ll pardon me. It’s a pity 
Mr. Stopford isn’t in, sir.” 

“All right,” Michael shrugged resignedly. “You’d bet¬ 
ter tell Lord Harnley that Mr. Chillaton called. Say I’ll 
be at the Takyll Arms in the village, until he’s ready to end 
this state of siege.” 

He heard the doors close quickly, with a rattle of chain. 
In disgust he climbed back into the car and started down 
the drive. A toot of his horn brought Mrs. Yeo out of her 
cottage to open the gates. She stared at him with surprise. 

“You don’t mean, Mr. Michael, as his lordship won’t 
see you!” 

Michael explained the queer situation with as much re¬ 
straint as his irritation would permit. 

“Well, I never, sir. If that isn’t a funny thing. His lord- 
ship didn’t pass out this way, Mr. Michael. And it isn’t 
like him to be out after dark these days. Of course, he’ll 
have the dog with him. One of Major Norton’s blood¬ 
hounds, that is. He sets great store by that dog, his lord- 
ship does.” 

The giant gates swung open. Taking the direction of 
Bishops Takyll, Michael shot the car forward with a jerk 
in tune with his exasperation. The whole thing—all this 
tomfoolery—on top of a two hundred mile journey from 
London was enough to give anyone the willies. He de¬ 
cided firmly that he would take up his quarters for the 
night at the Takyll Arms, no matter what apologetic or 
urgent message might arrive from the big house. Let the 
old fool stew in his own juice for another night. That 
Assistant-Commissioner chap had been quite right. It 
was the clearest case of hallucination. Sheer idiocy. 



30 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

He pressed the accelerator and streaked up a rise. A 
couple of miles would bring him to the village and some 
sort of welcome, at least. Already he seemed to smell beer 
and sawdust and strong tobacco, that comfortable amalgam 
of the Takyll Arms, as it should be of every proper inn. 
Old Sam Believer, the landlord, would be glad to see him, 
anyway. Lord, this was enough motoring for one day! 

Michael eased the car a little. And then he jammed on 
his brakes with a grunt of surprise, for there was a dark 
object lying on the near side of the road, barely fifty yards 
ahead. Pulling up he saw that it was the figure of a man, 
sprawled face downward. Leaping out, Michael ran for¬ 
ward. The inference was simple enough: another victim 
of the tragic sequence of road accidents. 

Kneeling down, he gently turned the figure over. The 
upturned features were streaked with blood that ran from 
a cut cheek across twisted lips and stained the little “im¬ 
perial” of gray hair. 

Michael gasped in consternation. 

“Good God! Harnleyl” 


Chapter V 


Michael jerked out a hand. He touched the closed eye¬ 
lids and felt them flicker—very slightly. The heart, too, 
was beating, though in spasms and leaps. Life persisted, it 
seemed, but very tenuously, very precariously. 

He stood up. It looked bad—too bad a case to be moved 
without medical attention. His first impulse was to lift 
the victim into his car and drive on to the doctor’s in 
Bishops Takyll, but there might be danger in that. The 
shock—at that age. Internal hemorrhage. Heaven knew 
what concealed injuries. He walked to the car and got out 
a rug and his overcoat. The coat he placed, carefully 
rolled, under the unconscious man’s head. The rug would 
serve to keep some warmth in that battered body, until 
help could be got. 

Too little traffic used that road to justify waiting for 
a passing car, and yet Michael disliked the idea of leav¬ 
ing his wounded relative for even as long as it would take 
to cover the odd mile or so to village and back. Suddenly 
he became aware of a white gate across the road. It was 
familiar, that gate! He’d be forgetting his own name if he 
couldn’t remember the entrance to the Tarn House. 
There’d be a telephone at Aunt Phil’s, of course. 

31 



32 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

The gate was padlocked, but without stopping to con¬ 
sider that, he vaulted over and ran up the short drive. In 
the dim light the house looked even more neglected than he 
remembered it. Aunt Philadelphia, he recalled, always kept 
the Tarn House as shabby as herself. Not her fault, poor 
old fossil. He found the brass knocker and banged vigor¬ 
ously. Within, the sound echoed back and forth, cavern¬ 
ous and mournful, until it died away into silence. Again 
Michael banged. Then, stung to temper by the thought of 
that poor devil in the road, he seized the door handle and 
threw his weight forward. Instantly there was a splinter¬ 
ing of rotten woodwork; the door gave way and Michael 
pitched to his hands and knees. The contact of his hands 
on bare boards told him what, in more reasonable moments, 
would have been obvious from the first; that Miss Phila¬ 
delphia Hemstone no longer tenanted the Tarn House. 
Nor, apparently, did anybody else. 

Picking himself up, he was about to turn back when 
he caught sight of an old-fashioned wall telephone. There 
seemed little doubt that the instrument had been discon¬ 
nected, but he grabbed the receiver and listened. 

As he listened, he heard a sound—not through the re¬ 
ceiver,—but from overhead; the tapping of muted foot¬ 
steps that ran towards the front of the house and halted 
there, one foot continuing to tap as though in impatience or 
anxiety. 

It was curious that, in an empty house. Later, Michael 
decided, he would have a look. He rattled the receiver arm 
gently, but the line was manifestly dead. Replacing the 
receiver he turned back to the open door. He would have 
to cut along to the village after all. 

From where he stood he could see into the road between 
the tall hedges that flanked the gateway. The gate itself 
was silhouetted sharply against the rays of the headlights. 
At that moment a figure on a bicycle crossed his view, in 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 33 

characteristically deliberate movements. With a sigh of 
relief Michael recognized the outline of a policeman’s 
helmet. 

He was on the point of running to this Heaven-sent as¬ 
sistance when again he heard the shuffle of footsteps over¬ 
head. He checked himself, wondering. Coupled with what 
might or might not be an accident to old Harnley this 
presence in the empty house called for inquiry. It would 
only take a second or two to clear this up. He turned and 
mounted the stairs, treading softly in the direction of those 
sounds. He flung open the door. Instantly a smothered 
gasp came from the darkness and a shadow crossed the 
window. Michael closed the door and stood with his back 
to it. He waited. In the deathlike pause that followed he 
heard the labored sound of somebody’s breath. 

“Well,” he suggested, “suppose you introduce yourself.” 

The only answer was a barely audible movement, like 
a scrape along the wall. The implication of that sound 
made him smile. All right, he was ready. As good in a 
scrap as the next man. He tensed his muscles and stretched 
out his arms to meet the expected rush in the darkness. 

And then he dropped his arms, with a sniff of surprise. 

“So it’s a lady? Such charming perfume! Now we posi¬ 
tively must be introduced.” 

Still no answer; only another tiny scrape along the 
wall. 

“Come, my dear. Not afraid of me, surely?” 

This time a response came, barely above a whisper. 

“Yes, please go away!” 

“And leave my curiosity unsatisfied?” 

“What does your curiosity matter? I am nothing to 
you!” came in low tones. 

Michael then deliberately moved into the center of the 
room. Instantly he was aware of her movement along the 
opposite wall. Soon there came the frantic patter of foot- 


34 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

steps in the direction of the door. Then he turned, swift 
as a panther, and caught a supple body fair and square in 
his arms. A cry of hysterical terror broke from her. He 
slackened his grip a little. 

“Steady,” he said, gently, and led her to the window. In 
the faint light that filtered in he saw that she was young, 
though the dark distended eyes and white face were 
strained with fear. She wore a long leather coat with a 
little pulled-on hat of the same material, beneath which 
shining golden hair glinted. 

“Let me go!” she breathed pitifully. 

Michael pointed through the window, across the road. 
The kneeling figure of the policeman could be seen, beside 
the stretched-out form. 

“Do you see that? Does he frighten you more than I? 
Tell me what this means.” 

“I—I can’t!” Drawing in her breath she stared at him, 
for the first time meeting his eyes. They were good- 
humored eyes, but perfectly inflexible. Suddenly Michael 
smiled. 

“Come on,” he said. “I won’t eat you!” 

The girl’s form relaxed in his grip. 

“Don’t—don’t hold me so tight!” 

Michael chuckled. But his grasp remained. 

“I’m waiting,” he observed comfortably. 

For a moment she was silent, motionless. Then with 
a savage, desperate wrench she strove to free herself. 

“Let me go! For God’s sake. If you knew—!” 

“How can I know if you don’t tell me, you silly girl?” 
the young man demanded reasonably. “Had you anything 
to do with that?” He pointed again through the window. 

“No!” the reply came instantly. She was shaking her 
head with horror. 

“You saw it happen?” 

“No!” 


35 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

“Do you know who did it?” 

“No—Yes!” she stammered. “Have they—have they 
killed him?” 

“Not their fault if they haven’t—whoever they are,” 
Michael retorted grimly. “It strikes me you’re what is 
called a material witness. And yet you don’t want to meet 
the police. What am I to assume from that?” 

She was silent, and he shook her gently. 

“What am I to assume from that?” he repeated. “That 
you are up against the police?” 

A weary, half-defiant shrug answered him. “All right,” 
she said. “Why don’t you hand me over?” 

Michael paused and surveyed her in the gloom. The 
fantastic conclusion that had first jumped to his brain 
seemed fantastic no longer. “Do you think I like the job?” 
he demanded presently. 

“What does that matter? You will be doing your duty. 
Think how people will admire you!” She began to laugh, 
unevenly. He shook her again, not so gently. 

“Stop that and listen to me,” he ordered. “Suppose I 
tell you, that putting two and two together in the light of 
recent events, with the aid of admirably circulated police 
descriptions, I could arrive at a pretty close guess at your 
identity? Wouldn’t you consider me justified in returning 
you safely where you belong? Especially in view of the 
somewhat drastic treatment your friends seem to have 
accorded my respected uncle.” 

He felt her start at that. 

“Lord Harnley is your—?” 

“Unfortunately, yes. No reason, in my opinion, why he 
should be butchered to make a crook’s holiday.” 

The girl’s shoulders drooped wearily. 

“I can’t expect you to believe anything that I say—but 
if I had known—” she broke off. 

“Go on,” Michael urged quickly. 



36 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

She shook her head. 

“No, I am ready now. You had better take me—to 
him.” She pointed towards the window. 

“Very well. And look here,” Michael released one of her 
wrists and patted her shoulder, “if I can help you— 
afterwards. Curse it, I loathe this job, but it’s got to be 
done! Come on!” 

He linked his arm through hers and moved to the door. 
Passing through they descended the stairs in silence. Then, 
on the threshold of the front door the girl halted rigidly. 

“Listen!” she whispered. 

He stared in the direction of her pointed finger, at a 
dark shadow that lurked in the shrubbery. A tingling 
came at the roots of his hair. Suddenly the girl gave a 
vigorous wrench and freed herself. In a split second she 
was out of the doorway and out of sight. 

Michael made no attempt at pursuit. “Glad she thought 
of that,” he murmured softly. “It solves a rather beastly 
little problem for the present! Only for the present, by 
Jove!” 

He walked thoughtfully down the drive and vaulted 
the padlocked gate. The policeman was engaged in ap¬ 
plying a bandage to the injured man’s head. He looked up 
stolidly. 

“You’ve come back, eh?” he observed in an unfriendly 
voice. “I take it you’re the gentleman who knocked his 
lordship down. I’ll trouble you for your name and address 
when I’ve fixed this here bandage. Why, bless me, if it 
isn’t Mr. Chillaton! Gor’, this is a bad business, Mr. Chil- 
laton, sir! However did you come to do it? Your poor 
uncle, too!” 

“Don’t be a fool, Sergeant Bassett,” Michael retorted 
without heat. “How’s he getting on?” 

“Coming round, sir, by the look of it. Well, if you 
didn’t knock him. down, who did?” 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 37 

“It’d be interesting to know, wouldn’t it?” Michael 
asked patiently. “For the present hadn’t we better get a 
doctor? I’ve been trying to phone from the Tarn House, 
but it seems—er—untenanted.” 

“The Tarn House, sir! Coo! It’s been empty ever since 
Miss Hemstone left it. A matter of five years or more. 
Doctor Lumsden’s coming, sir. The new doctor. I stopped 
young Joe Carey just now and told him to take a message. 
And here ’e is, by the look of it! ” 

Headlights topped the rise ahead of them and sent long 
shafts of light into their faces, illuminating too, the chalky, 
hooked features of the victim. In a half minute the car 
had pulled to the side of the road. A short, stoutly built 
man got out and approached the group. Nodding to the 
Sergeant Dr. Lumsden gave Michael a brief, critical stare. 

“Um. How long ago did this happen? And how fast 
were you going?” He addressed Michael who scowled 
irritably. 

“Mr. Chillaton is hot the responsible party, I under¬ 
stand, sir,” the sergeant intervened. 

“Um, I see.” Dr. Lumsden stared again at Michael. 
“Mr. Chillaton, eh? Haven’t had the pleasure of meeting, 
I think. Um—” For awhile he was occupied, flexing joints, 
prodding, pulling, listening, tapping. Presently he straight¬ 
ened up. 

“Not too bad. That cut on the face—superficial. Noth¬ 
ing to worry about. Shock, of course. Remains to be seen 
just how much shock. Better get him home. You staying 
there, eh?” He addressed Michael abruptly. 

“Right. I’ll go with you, of course. Though he’ll prob¬ 
ably boot me out as soon as he comes round.” 

Dr. Lumsden grunted sourly. “Lord Harnley and I are 
the barest of acquaintances, I may tell you. Well, we’d best 
get him into your car. I’ll follow—Hello!” 

The ejaculation was caused by a sudden movement of the 



38 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

victim’s left leg, which flexed itself at the knee. The next 
moment both eyes opened, surveying the trio with a queer, 
hostile expression which sent a shiver down Michael’s 
spine. He had never been intimate with his uncle Edward 
Harnley and that look revealed a new and displeasing as¬ 
pect of the man. 

“Hello, uncle,” Michael said uneasily. “You’re getting 
on famously. Don’t you know me? I’m Michael—Michael 
Chillaton.” 

The glare switched to Sergeant Bassett, and from the 
Sergeant to Dr. Lumsden, upon whom it rested venomously. 
With an effort the old man lifted himself on one elbow. 

“Here, steady—” Lumsden began, when a cracked voice 
cut him short. 

“Hold your tongue, you fool, and take me home!” 

“I’m going to,” the doctor replied grimly, “and until you 
get there, Lord Harnley, you’ll consider yourself under 
my orders. After that you may call in any medical man 
you choose. It won’t be me.” The last words were in an 
undertone. Aloud, Lumsden proceeded, “Your nephew is 
here fortunately, and I propose to put you in his car.” 

Once again the hostile gaze rested on Michael. 

“My nephew,” said the cracked voice, feebly and yet 
with extraordinary vindictiveness, “is not to enter my 
house! Do you hear! I won’t have him inside my house. 
I won’t! I won’t!” 

“Good Gor’!” muttered the Sergeant, aghast. “The 
shock! That’s what it is! The shock!” 

“All right, uncle,” Michael said soothingly. “Just as 
you wish.” 

“Lend a hand, you two,” Lumsden interjected curtly. 
“In my car, since he’d probably have a fit in yours. You’ll 
follow, I take it?” he asked Michael, who shook his head. 

“The Takyll Arms seem to appeal more to me to-night, 
doctor, strange to say. I’ll go and see him in the morning.” 


39 


THE CROOKS' SHEPHERD 

The Sergeant and Lumsden set their burden carefully 
in the doctor’s car. Then the Sergeant pulled at his lower 
lip thoughtfully. 

“I don’t know as I hadn’t ought to go along with ’im,” 
he observed. “We’ve got to find out something about this 
here accident. He might remember a bit, so to speak.” 

“Assuming that it was an accident,” Michael cut in. He 
found himself again meeting the eyes of the old man, 
glaring at him with an expression that baffled the young 
man beyond words. 

The car started, gathered speed until its twinkling tail 
light vanished. 


Chapter VI 


Old Sam Bellever of the Takyll Arms greeted Michael 
with a nice blend of enthusiasm and respect. Mr. Chillaton 
was his lordship’s heir; hence the respect. It was well 
known that Mr. Chillaton and his lordship did not alto¬ 
gether hit it off; hence the enthusiasm. And if Old Sam was 
startled by the young gentleman’s request for a bed, he 
kept his surmises to himself. 

“Why, certainly, Mr. Chillaton, sir. Bless us, what 
shocking news about his lordship, sir. It’s quite remark¬ 
able what a lot of folks have been knocked down lately! 
Right at the end of the holiday season, too. Did you say 
half of bitter, sir?” 

Michael took a casual glance round the little bar. There 
was a sprinkling of rustics, and a peculiar-looking youth 
clad in khaki shorts surmounted by a revoltingly hideous 
wool pullover. The youth had long pallid features, and 
lank black hair that hung over one ear. His eyes glinted 
owlishly behind very thick horn-rimmed spectacles. He 
reminded Michael of a certain left-wing member of Parlia¬ 
ment. 

“What they call a ’iker, sir,” old Sam whispered. 
“Spends his time walking about these here lanes and foot- 

40 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 41 

paths and getting ’is knees all scratched with brambles. 
It’s queer the way some folks enjoy ’emselves, sir.” 

Michael acquiesced and took a pull at his drink. Chanc¬ 
ing to meet the hiker’s eyes he nodded a greeting. 

“Exploring the neighborhood, eh? Decent country round 
here,” he observed carelessly. 

The hiker inclined his head solemnly. 

“It is remarkably interesting,” he agreed. “I have 
d-discovered m-many indications of p-paleolithic occupa¬ 
tion in the district.” 

“Oh.” Michael was a little balked by this unpromising 
subject. “Er—have a drink?” 

“Thank you. I will have a ginger b-beer.” 

Old Sam snorted covertly as the soft drink was set be¬ 
fore this erudite young man. To Michael’s relief the ten¬ 
sion was broken by the entrance of Sergeant Bassett, mop¬ 
ping his forehead as a result of his cycling exertions and 
manifestly put out. Observing his condition Michael pre¬ 
scribed with satisfying promptitude. 

“Thankee, Mr. Chillaton, sir.” The Sergeant accepted 
his tankard with a sigh of relief. “Well, there’s rum hap¬ 
penings up at the Place, and no error. First, ’is lordship 
knocked down and now ’is lordship’s man gone and disap¬ 
peared.” 

“Stopford?” Michael demanded in surprise. 

“Stopford, sir. Clean disappeared! Went out on his 
tricycle—it being his afternoon off, I understand—and 
’asn’t been seen since. Four hours overdoo.” 

“Four hours hardly seems long enough to suggest a dis¬ 
appearance. He’s probably punctured a tire.” 

“You don’t know Stopford, sir, begging your pardon, 
not as I do, or you wouldn’t say that. Been with ’is lord- 
ship nigh on thirty years, and wouldn’t no more dream 
of overstaying his time than fly, puncture or no puncture. 
His lordship’s in a rare to-do about it. Been telephoning 



42 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

the station fit to bust the wires. Gor!” The Sergeant took 
a long pull at his tankard and banged it down with dra¬ 
matic emphasis. Natcherally, he were the first person ’is 
lordship asked for. And ’ere I’ve been ’unting all round 
these lanes and not so much as a smell o’ Mr. Stopford. 
Clean disappeared, tricycle and all!” 

“Have another,” said Michael tactfully. 

“Thankee, sir. Don’t mind if I do.” 

“Heard any more about my uncle—about Lord Harn- 
ley’s injuries?” 

“No, sir. But ’e’s getting along nicely, judging by the 
way ’e spoke on the telephone. A tough gentleman, his 
lordship, begging your pardon. I shouldn’t wonder if the 
doctor don’t happen along soon, sir.” The Sergeant glanced 
round the bar, and his gaze alighted somewhat coldly on 
the hiker with his ginger beer, as though implying some 
disparagement of the present company. 

“And here he is!” ejaculated the landlord. The door 
was thrust inwards and Dr. Lumsden entered. “Good eve¬ 
ning to you, sir!” 

Lumsden nodded curtly and pushed his hat back from 
his forehead with an irritable gesture. 

“Give it a name,” Michael suggested with his usual tact. 
He reflected that at this rate it meant standing treat to 
most of the population of Bishops Takyll, but he felt a 
sort of family responsibility for the ragged tempers around 
him. The doctor accepted the invitation morosely. 

“I trust you left my respected relative on the way to re¬ 
covery, doctor. Quite his bright and normal self, in fact.” 

Dr. Lumsden pulled out his pipe and began to fill it 
with a certain savage earnestness. 

“If,” he said, “Lord Harnley is now his normal self, then 
in my opinion he ought to be in a lunatic asylum.” 

With which somewhat contradictory diagnosis he took 
a draft from his tankard. 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 43 

“There’s something damned funny going on in that 
household, if you ask me,” he added, wiping his stiff gray 
mustache with a colored silk handkerchief. “In the first 
place Lord Harnley needs professional attention. He’s had 
a devil of a shock and the result is profounder than you’d 
think. Temper and mental state are all to hell. But I 
can’t force my services on him, can I ? And where the deuce 
is Stopford?” 

Sergeant Bassett’s big fist came down on the counter 
with a bang. 

“That’s what we want to know, sir. Mark my word, 
there’s somethink queer about Mr. Stopford’s disappear¬ 
ance!” 

Michael lit a cigarette. He was unaccountably reluc¬ 
tant to refer to yet another incident in the locality, even 
more “queer” than the disappearance of Lord Harnley’s 
butler. A vision came before his eyes of a white-faced girl 
with frightened eyes and gleaming yellow hair. 

The hiker had risen to replace his empty ginger beer 
glass. 

“Have another,” Michael said mechanically. 

“Thank you, no,” the precious youth responded with a 
peculiar click in his mouth that betrayed ill-fitting den¬ 
tures. “It is very k-kind of you.” Returning to his seat he 
extracted a guide book from his knapsack and proceeded 
to study it. Michael caught the Sergeant’s withering 
glance and grinned. 

“There’s another damned queer thing,” the doctor con¬ 
tinued ruminantly. “You know Harnley never took his 
walks without Jailer. It occurred to me to ask that new 
under footman—Orson, his name is—why the dog hadn’t 
been with his master at the time of the accident. Orson, 
who in my opinion, has a face like a criminal degenerate, 
declared that Jailer did go out with his lordship. Well,” 
Dr. Lumsden paused to light his pipe, “as I subsequently 


44 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

discovered, Orson was perfectly right. I saw the hound’s 
body by the roadside on my way home. Shot dead! ” 

Michael’s tankard checked in mid-air. 

“Shot?” 

“Dead as mutton,” said the doctor. 

Sergeant Bassett wiped his mustache. 

“That don’t surprise me,” he observed, shaking his 
head. “His lordship ’ad been using that dog to track poach¬ 
ers with. Made ’im unpopular, it did. Depend on’t, sir, 
that’s poacher’s work.” 

Dr. Lumsden tapped the counter emphatically. 

“If a poacher killed that hound, Sergeant, he’d have 
used a shotgun. You’re not going to say I could mistake 
the sort of wound a shotgun makes?” 

The Sergeant gazed owlishly and Michael laid down 
his tankard. 

“You’re telling us,” the young man said slowly, “that 
it was a bullet?” 

The doctor nodded. 

“Go and see for yourself, Chillaton. It’s near the ditch 
—outside the Tarn House.” 

“The Tarn House!” 

“Well, I never,” observed old Sam Believer with relish. 
“If that isn’t a rum go!” 

Michael maintained an uneasy silence. Glancing across 
the bar presently, he got the impression that the hiker, 
despite his earnest posture was more interested in the con¬ 
versation than in his guidebook. 

Naturally, perhaps. It was a queer conversation. 

Then his soliloquy was interrupted by a booming voice 
from the open doorway of Sam Believer’s sitting room be¬ 
hind the bar. 

“. . . The weather forecast for to-night and to-mor¬ 
row . . .” 

“That’s the missis,” old Sam explained apologetically, 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 45 

“always will turn it on full, being a bit deaf, you under¬ 
stand.” 

. . A low pressure system is extending eastward over 
the British Isles . . . /” bellowed the nerve-racking ac¬ 
cents, . . in Scotland, Ireland and the South-West of 
England there will be considerable rain. ... In the South- 
East . . .” Old Sam closed the door of the Believer sanc¬ 
tum, to shut out further noise. 

“I don’t suppose you gentlemen want to listen to that,” 
he observed. “Reckon most of us could tell the wireless 
gentleman as it’s goin’ to rain hereabouts to-night—without 
his help, neither 1” Old Sam snorted ironically and began 
to busy himself with various demands for replenishments. 
For a while Michael and his two companions smoked in 
silence. The young man was conscious of an increasing 
restlessness which he was able neither to define nor master. 
And conscious, more exactly, of having made a fool of 
himself in the matter of the girl in the Tarn House. To 
acquiesce, however involuntarily, in the escape of a con¬ 
victed criminal was an act of unwisdom. There might be 
unpleasant consequences. Damn! 

Behind the oak-paneled door Mrs. Believer was still 
enjoying the benefits of modern invention. Not even solid 
oak could altogether muffle the announcer’s stentorian 
tones: 

“Here is the first news, copyright reserved. ... In the 
House of Commons this afternoon . . .” 

“Have one one me?” suggested Dr. Lumsden with a 
gesture that included Michael and Sergeant Bassett. 
Michael nodded mechanically. 

“Thankee, sir,” said Sergeant Bassett. “I don’t mind 
if I do.” 

The tankards, foaming invitingly, were raised in mutual 
dedication. 

“We regret to announce the death of Sir Ebenezer Wag- 


46 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

horn” came shatteringly through the oak. “Sir Ebenezer, 
who was a distinguished member of . . .” 

“Dang it! 57 scowled old Sam irritably. “Fair beats me 
it does, why the missis wants to listen to all this here 
twaddle, ’stead of a nice bit of moosic. You don’t never 
hear any noos on the wireless, you don’t. Not so much as 
a solitary murder nor sooicide. If it wasn’t for the Sunday 
papers we’d never know what was ’appening, and that’s a 
fact.” 

“There is still no news of the four escaped convicts,” 
bawled Mrs. Believer’s wireless set, manifestly straining 
every tube to secure a more appreciative audience. “We 
are again requested by Scotland Yard to issue a warning 
to those who may be harboring the criminals. It is believed 
that two of the men are still in London but in the ab¬ 
sence of definite clues the police are unable to proceed 
further. * . 

“Now that,” observed Sam Believer with satisfaction, 
“is a bit more like it.” He opened the door wide to admit 
the full blast of oratory to a now attentive clientele, inci¬ 
dentally disclosing Mrs. Believer seated with her ear six 
inches away from the amplifier. 

“. . . The convict Minser was traced to a house in 
Bermondsey following his escape from Wandsworth jail,” 
came in tones that seemed to crackle with rage. “Minser 9 s 
fingerprints were discovered on articles of crockery in the 
bedroom in which he slept, but the owner of the house is 
unable to give any useful information regarding her lodger, 
beyond the fact that he appeared plentifully supplied with 
money. She states that he spent most of the day in the 
back yard, which abuts on the railway embankment and 
occupied himself taking geranium cuttings for her window 
boxes. ... The police are interrogating this woman 
further. ... It is believed possible that the convict may 
have boarded a passing train and that his reason for spend- 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 47 

ing so much time in the yard was with this end in view. . . . 
Minser’s description is as follows :— Height 5 ft. 7 ins. 
Age about 62. Spare built and round shouldered. Hair 
gray, slightly bald. Eyes pale blue. Clean shaven. Wears 
spectacles. Possesses a gentle manner and ingratiating 
voice. ... Is an expert forger. . . . 

“Of the convict Parkwell who escaped from Pentonville 
the following day or of Neyland who broke away from a 
working party on Dartmoor the police have no trace what¬ 
ever. There are grounds for believing that these men are 
under the protection of the person or persons who organized 
their escapes. . . . Their respective descriptions are :— 
Parkwell: 5 ft. 8 ins. Age 44. Sallow complexioned, light 
hair. Eyes brown. Clean shaven. Teeth crooked and 
broken. A locksmith by trade. Convicted for series of 
safe burglaries. . . . Neyland: A man of education and 
by profession an actor. Height 5 ft. ll J / 2 ins. Strong, wiry 
build. Dark hair turning gray. Eyes gray, features strongly 
aquiline and regular. Good teeth and hands. Age 47. The 
last of the four escaped criminals is the woman blackmailer 
Christine Abbott, whose removal from Hollbury Prison 
constitutes a unique achievement in the history of such 
feats.” 

Michael found himself gripping the handle of his tankard 
with unwonted firmness. Old Sam, he saw, was shaking 
his head solemnly. 

“A shocking affair that was, Mr. Chillaton, sir. You 
heard all about it, I reckon?” 

Michael forced himself to nod casually. 

“More or less. I’ve not been to Takyll Place for the 
best part of six years.” 

“Oh. So you didn’t meet the young lady, sir?” 

“No.” The young man’s reply came deliberately. Was 
it imagination, he wondered, or were that infernal hiker’s 
eyes fixed on him with a sinister meaning? 


48 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

“Such a nice young lady, I did hear,” remarked Sam 
Believer. “It just shows you never can tell.” 

“Height five jeet eight inches!” shouted the announcer. 
“Eyes blue —” 

So they were blue? Michael had wondered. 

“Age twenty-one—Slim build.” 

Yes, she had been slim. Slim and straight. 

“Hair described as gold-yellow. Teeth good. Complex¬ 
ion clear.” 

Michael lifted his tankard and took a deep draft. He 
must dissemble or he would give himself away. 

“Anyone who has information that will assist the police 
in the apprehension of these jour convicts, is requested to 
ring up New Scotland Yard; telephone number White¬ 
hall 1212.” 

“A reg’lar stir it made at the time,” commented Old 
Sam reminiscently. “There was some as said that his lord- 
ship, begging your pardon, didn’t ought to have brought 
the proceedings against the young lady. But of course 
you’d know more about the ins and outs of that affair than 
we should.” 

He paused provocatively. Michael smiled grimly. 

“If you’re suggesting that there were incidents in Lord 
Harnley’s past that invited blackmailing attentions, Sam, 
you may be right. He didn’t confide them in me.” 

Sergeant Bassett coughed disapprovingly. 

“I reckon Mr. Believer didn’t mean to forget himself,” 
he remarked, implying that old Sam had, in fact, forgotten 
himself badly. “And the law’s the law, I reckon.” 

Dr. Lumsden grunted, implying, for his part, to all dis¬ 
sociation from the discussion. A little shamefacedly old 
Sam reclosed the door behind the bar, in time to check an 
outburst of football results. 

Once again, Michael found himself meeting the gaze 
of the hiker. This time he failed to repress a scowl. 


Chapter VII 


“If,” observed the Hon. Miss Hemstone, “you expect 
me to exhibit any disturbance at your news you are mis¬ 
taken. I am neither a fool nor a hypocrite.” 

She was sitting bolt upright in a high-backed chair while 
Michael occupied the window seat in the tiny drawing 
room at Delphinium Cottage. The morning sunlight made 
a pool of light on the faded carpet at his feet. 

“I—er—thought you might at least be interested, Aunt 
Phil.” 

“Then you thought wrong. It is no concern of mine if 
Edward gets himself knocked down. I have nothing to 
say about it. Nothing.” 

Michael gazed at her in amazement. 

“Even if it proves not to have been an—accident, Aunt 
Phil?” 

“Certainly not. It is a matter of great surprise to me 
that my brother has not been murdered long ago. He is 
a disgrace to the peerage and you may tell him so, with 
my compliments.” 

Michael grinned ruefully. 

“It doesn’t look as if I shall have the chance,” he ob¬ 
served. 


50 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

“Then may I inquire/’ snapped the old lady, “why you 
have come to Bishops Takyll?” 

“Because Uncle Edward sent for me, as a matter of 
fact.” 

“And now he won’t see you? Tchah! You are wasting 
your time. Go away and do some work, young man, and 
leave Edward to get murdered if he wants to.” 

“Why should he get murdered?” Michael asked. 

“Goodness; don’t ask me! / don’t know anything about 
his wickedness nowadays. But a man who can treat his 
own sister as he did is capable of anything.” 

Michael gazed at the white, hard old face pensively. 
Her hooked features were very like Harnley’s, he thought. 

“Did he treat you so badly?” he asked quietly. “Don’t 
answer if you’d rather not.” 

“He did nothing,” answered the old woman, as quietly, 
“except ruin my life.” 

The words were spoken with such an undercurrent of 
sheer hate that Michael was startled. An unpleasant pause 
fell. He became aware of Miss Hemstone’s eyes glinting 
at him steadily as though reading his thoughts. 

“Well,” she said presently, “are you going to take my 
advice?” 

Michael looked up inquiringly. 

“Get back to wherever you came from,” she went on. 
“Go away from Bishops Takyll.” 

The young man shook his head. 

“Not until I have discovered why Harnley sent for me. 
There is something strange happening at Takyll Place and 
this business of Stopford—” 

“There is always something strange in our family, young 
man. You should thank God you are not wholly one of us! 
But keep away! Lest you be contaminated.” The old 
lady’s bony jaws clicked together with sinister emphasis. 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 51 

“You are the child of a half-sister, Michael. She was the 
only one who found happiness. Isn’t that enough for you, 
that you must skulk about Takyll Place nosing for pick¬ 
ings?” 

Michael stiffened resentfully. 

“You think I came for that?” 

“In my family we always believe the worst, young man. 
You are Harnley’s heir. Do you suppose the sight of you 
is pleasant? He has neglected and stinted me—his own 
sister—for forty years. Did you know that? Did you 
know that when Edward Harnley dies I can claim a share 
of the estate under the entail, even if you do get the bulk? 
And do you know that Edward isn’t likely to die soon 
enough to suit me, and I want money, money, moneyl” 

Miss Hemstone scratched the arm of her chair with her 
small hands clawed like a cat’s. 

“All our lives Edward and I have hated each other— 
as only brother and sister can hate. As soon as he had the 
chance to express his hate in a concrete fashion he took it. 
And I couldn’t hit back. All I could do was to laugh when 
someone robbed him as that Abbott girl robbed him. I 
laugh now you tell me that someone has knocked him down. 
I shall laugh loudest of all if someone kills him!” 

The harsh voice rose to a shrill cacophony of mirth, and 
then ceased abruptly. 

“Get out,” said Miss Hemstone, very quietly. 

Michael was more shocked than he cared to show. He 
made a pretense of gazing languidly out of the window. 
The bright morning sun was becoming obscured by drifting 
rain clouds and it looked as if the weather would break 
quickly. He said so. It was a fatuous remark and Miss 
Hemstone smiled sardonically. 

“I am not a lunatic,” she said. “Though I have every 
right to be. You had better go now.” 


52 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

Michael nodded, still gazing out of the casement. He 
observed that on the well-kept flower bed beneath him was 
the deep imprint of a hob-nailed boot. It struck him, 
quite suddenly, as curious. Gardeners do not trample on 
freshly dug beds. 

“You seem to have had a visitor, Aunt Phil. A tramp, 
perhaps. Better keep your windows locked.” 

He stopped, aware, without seeing her, that Miss Hem- 
stone’s attitude had become charged with intense hostility 
—or was it just bitter impatience at his failure to cut short 
an unpleasant interview? He turned to face her. She was 
sitting very still, with an expression that baffled him utterly. 
He gave her a muttered good-bye and went out. 

Takyll Place was situate, as the estate agents say, on 
rising ground, amidst charming rural scenery. Constructed 
in the Tudor style, and approached by four drives. Ac¬ 
commodation comprising large reception hall and five other 
reception apartments, twenty-two principal bedrooms, ten 
secondary and servants’ bedrooms and those mysterious 
apartments known as the “usual offices.” What the estate 
agents would probably omit to add was that four fifths of 
the mansion had been shut up for the past ten years while 
the remaining fifth, owing to persistent under-staffing, 
was as shabby as a third-rate boarding house. 

The expenditure of money for the benefit of posterity 
was an exercise in which Lord Harnley had indulged as 
little as possible. He nursed a grievance against the times 
that could inflict heavy imposts upon his estate and not 
provide him with an heir of his body to inherit it. Michael 
Chillaton, ineligible for the titular honors, he regarded as 
a fortuitous intruder in the family scheme. The fact that 
Harnley’s only essay at marriage many years previously 
had ended in swift and irremediable disaster merely aggra¬ 
vated the offense of Michael’s existence. 


53 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

Upon all of which Michael dwelt with some gloom as 
he proceeded along the footpath that crossed the estate 
from the village. He was resolved to make one more effort 
to see his uncle in order to get at the bottom of that letter 
appealing for his help. Given a convincing assurance that 
the fears expressed in the letter were unfounded, he would 
return to Wolverhampton and his career forthwith. That, 
in brief, was what he proposed to say, if he got as far as 
deciding anything at all. And to that extent he would fol¬ 
low Aunt Philadelphia’s advice. 

The footpath took him across the last of the pasture 
fields and into the parkland surrounding the house. An¬ 
other two hundred yards brought him to the main drive 
and thence to the imposing stone doorway. The doors were 
opened as before with the chain across them, and Michael 
scowled despairingly as the unprepossessing countenance 
of Orson appeared. 

“Good mornin’, sir,” the man greeted, in his shrill voice. 
“His lordship thought as you might call to-day, sir.” 

Michael surveyed the fellow coldly. 

“Did he, indeed? I suppose that’s why you’re keeping 
the place barricaded?” 

“Oh, no, sir. That’s only in case of other visitors, sir. 
Persons that his lordship mightn’t want to admit, you see, 
sir.” A clattering sounded from within and a little to 
Michael’s surprise the doors were swung wide. 

“His lordship’s in the study, sir,” Orson squeaked, as he 
carefully replaced the chain. He turned to lead the way. 
In another moment the young man found himself ushered 
into one of the dingiest of the Takyll Place “reception” 
rooms, with the old-fashioned Venetian blinds drawn down 
so that only thin shafts of fitful sunlight across the faded 
carpet redeemed the place from darkness. In the depths 
of an ancient leather-covered armchair, sat the victim of 
last night’s “accident,” a large patch of sticking plaster 


54 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

over one bony cheek and a forbidding expression on the 
remainder of the face. 

“Good morning, Uncle Edward,” Michael started with 
suitable brightness, “I hope you are feeling better.” 

The reply came like a bark. 

“How the devil do you expect me to feel better when 
you come pestering me in this manner! Sit down!” 

The young man lowered himself gently into a chair and 
fished for his pipe. 

“No objection, I hope?” he queried with valiant pleas¬ 
antness, holding aloft the pipe. 

“Now look here, my boy,” began the older man grimly. 
“Don’t imagine that you are going to settle down to a pretty 
little family chat. I gave Orson instructions to admit you 
this once in order to hammer one plain fact into your 
apology for a brain. D’ye understand?” 

Michael lit his pipe carefully, concealing his growing 
amazement under a smoke screen. 

“As a matter of fact, sir, I don’t understand at all.” 
He glanced around for an ash tray to receive his spent 
match and seeing none in the immediate vicinity rose to 
approach the fireplace. A sudden snarl of fury checked 
him. 

“Sit doivn!” 

Michael was astounded. It was the vehemence of a mad¬ 
man. Checking the exclamation that came to his lips he 
seated himself again and waited, brows knit. 

“You will have the goodness to keep still until I have 
finished what I have to say. After that you’ll clear out— 
for the last time!” 

Michael drew at his pipe grimly. 

“I also have one or two observations to make,” he said. 
“After you.” 

“Your observations do not concern me in the least, you 
young fool. Now listen! It is my wish that you leave this 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 55 

neighborhood and leave it without the waste of a single 
unnecessary moment. You will cease to concern yourself 
with my affairs. Go back to your infernal blast furnaces, 
or whatever it is you soil yourself with, and leave me alone. 
Can you understand that?” 

The harsh voice ceased and one trembling hand was 
raised to the wounded cheek as though in pain. But the 
eyes, with their unfamiliar balefulness continued to glare 
unwaveringly. Michael bit hard on his pipe-stem. 

“Very well,” he said, forcing himself to speak quietly, 
soothingly even. “If you wall be good enough to explain 
certain peculiarities that I do not understand to my satis¬ 
faction, I will go away, with no regrets whatever at the 
termination of our cordial relationship. I must assume 
that something has happened to alter your views about en¬ 
listing my help, as expressed in a somewhat agitated letter 
to me. Before complying with that request for my society 
it may interest you to know that I paid a call on your old 
friend Colonel Tankerville, the Assistant-Commissioner of 
Police—” 

An ejaculation like a snarl interrupted him. 

“Did you speak, uncle?” 

“No, confound you! Get on with it!” 

“I am aware,” Michael proceeded, “that your opinion 
of Colonel Tankerville, as expressed in the same letter, is 
not too flattering to a worthy official, but I considered it 
my duty to consult him before proceeding here. It was a 
little unfortunate that you referred to Colonel Tankerville 
as a moron because he read the letter. On the other hand 
he equalized matters somewhat by informing me that you 
suffered from nasty hallucinations. Probably both of you 
are right. What isn’t so satisfactory from my point of view 
is that I have traveled some hundreds of miles and taken 
unwarranted leave from my job, only to be told that my 
valuable services are not required.” 


56 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

The young man halted to draw at his pipe, and sur¬ 
veyed his uncle steadily. There was something behind his 
unpleasant crankiness and he badly wanted to know what 
it was. He watched the old man’s fidgety movements and 
queer, almost nervous drumming of finger tips. Presently 
the reply came, barked out with an exasperation that 
seemed to conceal some ulterior emotion. 

“Why the devil should I answer your fool questions! 
I’m entitled to change my mind. Besides—” a short pause 
broke the sentence “—there isn’t any danger now. Not 
the remotest!” 

“You say that, after last night?” Michael asked quietly. 

“Last night? Pooh! An accident!” 

“I see. And Stopford’s disappearance is another ac¬ 
cident?” 

“Stopford is a rogue. If he shows his face here again I 
shall dismiss him.” 

“After thirty years’ service?” 

“Bah! Thirty years’ robbery!” 

“All right,” Michael said equably. “It’s your funeral. 
By the way, how do you explain the shooting of Jailer?” 

“Jailer 1 What the devil—” 

“Your dog, sir. A valuable bloodhound, I understand.” 

“Good God!” 

Michael stared, puzzled. For the life of him he couldn’t 
make out whether the exclamation implied surprise or 
indignation. 

“These poachers, by God! Someone with a grudge 
against me.” The thin lips above the little tuft of “im¬ 
perial” parted with rage. “The damned rascals!” 

Michael continued to stare and the older man returned 
the stare balefully. Abruptly Michael stood up. He saw 
no point in enlightening Lord Harnley as to the precise 
manner of his dog’s death. 

“All right, sir. I’ll go now. I’ve only one thing more to 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 57 

say. If Stopford comes back don’t let him out of your 
sight again.” 

He started for the door. With his hand on the knob 
he shot a final glance at the figure in the chair, with its 
drumming fingers, grotesque patch on one cheek, and queer, 
unfamiliar eyes. It was the eyes that conveyed beyond all 
doubt—the madness of Edward Harnley. 

In the hall Orson was standing, so close to the library 
door as to suggest that he had been eavesdropping. Then 
a movement on the stairway caught Michael’s attention 
and held it. It was a woman descending, a tall, slender 
figure, not over young, but bien soignee from her admi¬ 
rably waved hair, carefully drawn eyebrows, and fault¬ 
lessly vermilioned lips down to the small feet expensively 
shod in brilliant-mounted snakeskin. She made an almost 
fantastic contrast with the shabby antiquity of the hall. 
With her penciled eyebrows raised inquiringly at Michael, 
she descended the remaining steps and came towards 
Michael. She held out a fragrantly scented hand, whose 
fingernails, Michael noted, matched her lips in their in¬ 
carnadined brilliance. 

“How do you do?” said this exotic creature. “I think 
you must be Mr. Chillaton. I am Bernice Randall, Lord 
Harnley’s new secretary.” 

Michael took the proffered hand. 

“Really, I had no idea,” he began controlling his won¬ 
der, “that my uncle—er—” 

“That he had engaged a new secretary?” the woman 
asked, opening her eyes dazzlingly. “But why should he 
not? At least I shall treat him better than the last one, I 
hope!” The vermilion streaks parted to reveal marvelous 
teeth in a smile. “That was too bad, wasn’t it?” 

Michael nodded dumbly. He was aware of a covert 
grin upon the shifty features of Orson. A damned peculiar 
butler, he thought angrily. A still more incongruous secre- 


58 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

tary. More and more his surmise about Lord Harnley’s 
mental state hardened into conviction. The old man must 
certainly be mad. At his age, to introduce this pretty lady 
—a professional, or he’d eat his hat—into the staid and 
correct environment of Takyll Place! With a bewildered 
shrug, Michael turned to go, muttering a few words of 
leave-taking. As the heavy doors closed behind him he 
could have sworn that a tinkle of laughter sounded. Or 
it might have been the rattle of that damned chain. 

He walked quickly, with mounting uneasiness, and a 
sense of impotence. Something was wrong there. Some¬ 
thing very wrong. Harnley’s accident. The slain blood¬ 
hound. Stopford’s disappearance. Stopford’s successor, 
who looked like a jailbird. And, lastly, that woman. His 
uncle had forbidden him the house and unless some doctor 
certified the old man as non compos mentis Michael had 
no more right to enter the house than the police. He might 
as well go back to Wolverhampton and do some useful 
work. No, he was damned if he would. 

He was on the point of turning to take the footpath 
that led back to the village when he observed, in the dis¬ 
tance, the lanky figure of the hiker, bent idiotically to 
peer at some weed by the wayside. In his present mood 
Michael had no wish for the company of this erudite youth 
and decided not to encounter him. He proceeded, there¬ 
fore, straight down the drive towards the main lodge. 

Some impulse made him turn for one last glance at the 
vast fagade of Takyll Place before a bend in the drive 
would shut it from his view. In the mild October sunshine 
its gray stonework took on a mellow w T armth and he was 
struck anew with the beauty of the structure, with its long 
rows of diamond-paned, stone-mullioned windows that 
caught and reflected the sunlight in variegated hues like 
the pattern on a Harlequin’s costume. The whole of the 
eastern wing, he knew, was out of use, and rarely were 


59 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

the windows opened, even for ventilation. But one case¬ 
ment was now thrust outward and he was surprised to see 
someone move across the room within. Suddenly the figure 
stood very still, gazing out, a curiously remote, lonely fig¬ 
ure in that vast emptiness. Like a lone bee in a hive, 
Michael thought. One of the maids, he supposed. 

Then she turned as though the door behind her had 
opened. And as she turned the sunlight caught her hair 
and lit it up like a skein of spun gold. 


Chapter VIII 


When the girl turned at the sound of the opening door 
she saw Orson the butler standing there, a peculiar, watch¬ 
ful grin on his ugly countenance. 

“You want to keep away from that there window, Miss 
Abbott, if you’ll excuse me. I’ve just looked in to warn 
you about that. There’s a nosy parker of a young fellow 
hangin’ around, and it wouldn’t do for him to see you.” 

The girl nodded without answering. She understood 
that this curious servant was in some way implicated in 
the plot that had brought her here—smuggled into this 
disused wing of Takyll Place at dead of night—but she 
had asked no questions and sought no explanation of the 
many queer events that had transpired since her release at 
the hands of her unknown benefactor. She had nothing to 
lose in life and possibly everything to gain by passive 
acquiescence in whatever came to pass. She knew, also, 
that Takyll Place would be the last spot on earth in which 
the police would expect to find her. As a hide-out it was an 
inspiration. 

Orson crossed to the window and closed it. “Better not 
switch on the light, miss, to-night,” he continued in his 
high-pitched voice. “Can’t be too careful.” He paused as 

60 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 61 

if expecting her to say something, but again she merely 
nodded. Orson displayed his broken teeth in a grin. 

“I see you can keep your mouth shut,” he observed ap¬ 
provingly. “Well, it won’t be for much longer. He’s com¬ 
ing to-morrer night, they tell me.” 

It was on the tip of Christine’s tongue to ask who the 
mysterious visitor was to be, but she checked herself, and 
asked instead: 

“I suppose there is no risk of Lord Harnley visiting this 
part of the house, or any of the—other servants?” 

Orson broke into a cackle of laughter. 

“His lordship? T’ain’t likely! And there isn’t any 
other servants except the cook and kitchen staff, because 
they’ve all been sacked.” He checked himself quickly. 
“Don’t you worry yourself, miss. Nothin’ isn’t going to 
happen to you so long as you b’ave yourself.” 

The door closed. To Christine’s uneasiness, the key was 
turned and withdrawn from the lock. There was so much 
she didn’t understand. Well, to-morrow night would clarify 
things. After all, an escaped convict has no right to quarrel 
with a good hiding place. She went into the little bathroom 
that led from her bedroom and bathed her face. Then 
she sat down with a book to wait. 

Meanwhile Orson, humming shrilly, had lounged back 
to the occupied portion of the house. In the hall he paused 
to listen outside the library door, then turned and entered 
the dining room opposite. This was a spacious, paneled 
apartment, with massive and dignified furniture, but Or¬ 
son’s interest in the furniture was confined to an antique 
cellarette that stood adjacent to the high oak sideboard. 
The cellarette proved to be locked, but it took him only 
a few minutes with a skeleton key to open it. From within 
he lifted a bottle of port and a corkscrew. There were 
tumblers on the sideboard and Orson, filling a tumbler to 
the brim, held it up admiringly to the light. He had con- 


62 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

sumed barely half the contents of the bottle when the door 
opened and the lady who had introduced herself to Michael 
Chillaton as Lord Harnley’s new secretary, stood there, 
her rich lips parted contemptuously. 

“If it isn’t an impolite question,” she asked, “may I 
inquire whether you think this is the way to behave in a 
gentleman’s private house?” 

Orson chuckled. 

“Come in, Bernice,” he answered, “and have some of the 
gentleman’s private port. Coo! This is the stuff, believe 
me.” 

The woman lifted her head resentfully. 

“Miss Randall to you, please,” she snapped. “And if 
you’ll take my advice, Bossy, you won’t be quite so free 
about the house. There are some things he won’t stand 
for, and boozing’s one of them.” 

Orson drained his tumbler carefully and laid it down. 
An observable increase of assertiveness was in his de¬ 
meanor. 

“I’ll tell you what’s the matter with this job, Bernice. 
There’s too much blasted orderin’ about, that’s what! 
This here Crooks’ Shepherd, huh! Thinks that because 
he’s got us out of jug he can do as he bloomin’ well likes 
with us!” 

Bernice Randall’s eyes flashed. 

“So he can, you fool. And I’ll thank you to leave me out 
when you speak about crooks. You don’t think I’ve been 
in jug, do you?” 

“Some people has all the luck. There’s plenty of time, 
dear. Now don’t get excited, because I want to tell you 
somethin’. When this bloke comes here to-morrer night 
I’m going to put one over on ’im. See? What are we 
going to get out of this graft? Ten per cent? Not on your 
life! It’s fifty-fifty, or I stand out. And what’s more, if 
he starts tellin’ me he’ll send me back where I belong, why, 
there’s two can play at that game. See?” Orson laughed as 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 63 

he picked up the bottle again. Bernice Randall tapped 
the floor with her foot, ominously calm. 

“It’d be a real pity,” pursued Orson placidly, “if you 
lost a chance like this. You’d better stand in with me, 
dear, and then we needn’t upset the apple cart. Now listen: 
all we got to do when ’e comes to-morrer night is take ’is 
’at orf and ’ave a good look at ’im, so as to know ’im again 
if we’re so unfortunate as to meet in a police station, or 
any narsty place like that. We’re three to one, and it 
ought to be easy. And besides I don’t hold with this mys¬ 
tery business. It ain’t healthy.” 

Bernice Randall smiled slowly. Into her voice there 
came a world of scorn. 

“If you aren’t very careful, Bossy,” she said, “you’ll 
knock yourself against something much more unhealthy 
than the identity of the Crooks’ Shepherd.” 

S' 

Back on the main road again Michael pursued his moody 
way. Every inclination urged immediate abandonment of 
the neighborhood to its own impossible devices, with a 
return to the sanity of routine and work. But in the same 
breath he knew such a course was out of the question. 
Whatever was skew-eyed up at Takyll Place must first 
be straightened out. Incidentally, he wouldn’t straighten 
anything by returning to the inn to drink more beer. So 
Michael seated himself upon the nearest farm gate to 
think. It was high ground here and the outlook com¬ 
manded the village with its picturesque cottages and squat, 
ancient church set at one end of the winding High Street. 
Many of the cottages were thatched, their color-washed 
walls cheek by jowl so that they looked like a lot of ragged¬ 
haired conspirators whispering. Michael smiled whimsi¬ 
cally. It wasn’t easy to imagine anything very nefarious 
happening down there. He observed presently the gaunt 
figure of his aunt, Miss Philadelphia Hemstone, in con¬ 
versation with the vicar, over whom she towered like an 


64 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

old ostrich about to administer a savage peck. The like¬ 
ness was heightened by the long spindly legs beneath a 
somewhat attenuated, moth-eaten fur coat, and by the 
jutting chin that protruded from under a forward tilted 
hat of black straw like a menacing beak. Poor old bird. 
It was said that in her youth Miss Philadelphia had been 
handsome. Difficult to believe now. 

Michael turned his reflections back to present problems 
and Uncle Edward Harnley. He felt badly in need of a 
confidant, but Aunt Phil was no good there. As a result 
of ten minutes’ serious cogitation he got down from the 
gate and set off towards the house of Major Norton, Justice 
of the Peace, and breeder of pedigreed bloodhounds. 

Major Norton was discovered washing the old Buick 
touring car outside his garage. One bloodhound was drib¬ 
bling contentedly in the driver’s seat, another striving de¬ 
jectedly to discover some via media between forsaking his 
beloved master and getting drenched by the erratically 
wielded hose. At the sight of Michael, Major Norton 
dropped the hose, which shot a vicious jet straight at an 
inoffensive cat which happened to be performing its ablu¬ 
tions a dozen yards away. 

“Hello, Michael!” Major Norton called, turning off the 
hose. “I was wondering when you’d show up. Come in 
and have a drink.” 

The two shook hands in the perfunctory manner of Eng¬ 
lishmen who haven’t met for years, but who must yet con¬ 
ceal their regard for each other. Leading the way to the 
porch of his house, Major Norton kicked off his rubbers 
and called for glasses and bottles. 

In the low-raftered dining room Michael was greeted 
by his host’s daughter, whose half-matured figure was 
charmingly emphasized by the tight scarlet jumper she 
wore. Last time, Michael reflected, Jill Norton had been 
a child. Now, with her carelessly carefully waved chestnut 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 65 

hair and cocksure manner, she had sprung to years of in¬ 
discretion. He observed that she was studying the racing 
information in the Daily Mail. 

“Hello, Michael! How are the blast furnaces?” 

“Last time I saw you,” Michael answered reprovingly, 
“you addressed me as ‘Uncle.’ ” 

The child scoffed and lit a cigarette, passing the box 
to Michael, who sighed with regret for her vanished inno¬ 
cence. The ten years between them seemed to have 
dwindled to nothing. He hoped when his host mixed the 
drinks, that she didn’t include cocktails among her ado¬ 
lescent habits. She did! 

“There you are, my boy,” Major Norton said. “And 
now what brings you here out of season? Not that it isn’t 
high time someone took that old chap in hand. I allude, 
of course, to your respected uncle.” Michael took a sip 
at his glass. 

“That, more or less,” he replied, “is why I have come to 
see you. The popular view is that my Uncle Edward was 
knocked down by a motor car. In my opinion he was laid 
out by some thug.” 

“What did I tell you, dad?” interjected the girl trium¬ 
phantly. “He’s just got what was coming to him, the old 
beast.” 

“You might remember you’re speaking of Michael’s 
uncle,” grunted her father. 

Michael intervened tactfully. 

“My sympathies are with the thug, I assure you.” 

“Anyone who could treat a girl like Chris Abbott in that 
unspeakable way deserves to be laid out,” supplemented 
Jill with energy. 

“Now, now, now,” reproved her father. “That case was 
properly dealt with according to law.” 

“It was a rotten frame-up!” Jill declared heatedly. 
Michael felt his heart unaccountably warm towards the girl. 


66 


THE CROOKS' SHEPHERD 

“Jill reads detective stories/’ Major Norton observed, 
in extenuation of his daughter. “Still, I’m bound to say— 
the shooting of that hound—poor old Jailer —has a very 
fishy look. Too bad, that was! Best dog I’d bred for 
years, and Harnley thought a lot of him.” 

Michael nodded. 

“There’s another fishy item: Stopford’s absence,” he 
went on. “By the way, when did you last see my uncle?” 

“Urn, let’s see. Couple of weeks ago.” 

“Was he—er—normal, then?” 

“Normal? Ha! As normal as I’ve ever known him. 
That’s to say, his own charming, cantankerous, perverse, 
acrimonious and bad-tempered self. Oh, yes, quite nor¬ 
mal.” Major Norton gulped at his glass, as though he 
swallowed resentments with it. 

“Probably liver,” he added. “Mustn’t be too hard on 
him.” 

“Quite,” Michael agreed. “You would not, however, 
have said that my Uncle Edward was insane?” 

“No, wouldn’t go as far as that. Very jumpy, though. 
Nervous. Told us he’d written for your company and 
damned your eyes in the same breath.” 

“I’m not exactly persona grata now,” observed the young 
man dryly. In a few words he detailed the meeting with 
Lord Harnley at the scene of the accident and the inter¬ 
view that morning. He omitted, however, to refer to the 
much more interesting encounter with the solitary occu¬ 
pant of the Tarn House. Major Norton was a magistrate 
and Michael felt by no means certain that he wanted to 
see that elusive personality manacled to Sergeant Bassett 
until he had learnt a little more about her. 

“It’s plain enough why the hound was shot,” he con¬ 
cluded, and Major Norton nodded. 

“Jailer had a wonderful nose,” he said. “He’d have been 
on the scent all right.” 



67 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

Jill uttered an exclamation of excitement. 

“So that’s why you’ve come to us!” she cried. “How 
too terribly thrilling!” 

Her father stared for an instant uncomprehendingly. 
Then he pursed up his lips. 

“Rather a small chance, I’m afraid. Because we’ve 
nothing belonging to your thug to give ’em to smell. Still 
there’s a chance they might pick up something to follow. 
Um!” He turned to the girl. “Fetch Barrister and old 
Wardress. If they can’t do it, nothing can.” 

Jill tore jubilantly from the room, to reappear a bare 
minute later with a couple of massive hounds tugging 
at their leashes. They sniffed inquisitively at Michael’s 
boots. Having memorized the boots they gazed up at him 
with their peculiarly mournful red-rimmed eyes under 
puckered brows, and then tugged towards the door as 
though aware that some job was afoot and must be 
started without delay. 

“All right,” Major Norton grunted. “May as well get 
straight on with it, though I don’t believe you’ll get any 
results.” 

He thrust his feet into the gum boots again and the 
trio set out with Jill leading, a yellow beret rakishly aslant 
her chestnut curls and a cigarette between lips that 
were almost as bright as Bernice Randall’s, though in 
Michael’s opinion much more attractive. The scene of 
the accident lay not more than a mile away, and the 
trampled grass of the roadside made the exact spot easily 
identifiable. Jill held the hounds in at short leash. The 
party halted. Michael pointed beyond the ditch that ran 
between the roadside and tall dense undergrowth flank¬ 
ing the road. 

“If there’s anything in my theory,” he said, “the tough 
who floored my Uncle Edward might have been lying in 
wait somewhere inside that covert. In which case there 


68 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

ought to be a lingering whiff of him for the benefit of your 
hounds.” 

Jill Norton nodded eagerly and took the hounds for¬ 
ward, jumping the ditch and plunging into the thick 
autumn foliage beyond. They heard her encouraging her 
charges, amid the cracking of twigs. 

“Smell him, Wardress! Smell him, Barrister! Go on, 
then—go on, go on! Good old bitch!” 

Presently she called out: “Somebody has been here! 
The ground’s trodden about—Hooray! Here’s a bit of 
boot leather! And they’ve picked it up!” 

Almost as she spoke the hounds dragged her back 
through the undergrowth, across the ditch and back to 
the tangled grass of the roadside. Here they stopped, 
sniffing in circles, their sterns waving, questing very care¬ 
fully and deliberately. In Jill’s hand was a thin flake of 
half-moon shape leather that had manifestly belonged to 
a boot heel. Major Norton examined it critically. 

“There’s a nice assortment of scents here,” he observed. 
“Yours, Chillaton, for one, Sergeant Bassett’s for another. 
To say nothing of Harnley himself. But this ought to 
help. Ha! Look at ’em!” 

For both hounds, as though entirely of one mind about 
it, were straining in the direction of the village, their 
noses on the macadam. A bare twenty yards on, however, 
they checked again momentarily, and then crossed the 
road. To Michael’s consternation they made straight for 
the gateway of the Tarn House. 

Jill’s eyes were round with excitement. 

“I always knew there was something sinister about 
the Tarn House,” she declared blissfully. Her father ut¬ 
tered a growl of disparagement. 

“Those detective stories,” he said. “ ‘Sinister’ on every 
page! Bilge! All we’re likely to find in the Tarn House 
is rats. Over you go, then.” 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 69 

He assisted the heavily built animals—no great jump¬ 
ers—over the locked gate and clambered after them. 
Straight up to the front door they went and halted. 

“Hel-lo!” Major Norton ejaculated, and then whistled. 
“Somebody’s bust the lock on this door!” 

Michael felt himself growing hot with embarrassment. 

“Didn’t take much busting,” he remarked. “Er—I 
mean the woodwork looks pretty rotten.” Privately he 
cursed himself for not anticipating that the scent might 
lead here, despite her assurance that she had known noth¬ 
ing of the “accident.” He was only saved from blurting 
his guilty cognizance of the broken door by Jill’s action 
in thrusting the door inward. Promptly Barrister and 
Wardress dragged her inside. At once they made for the 
stairs. Michael’s dismay increased. Halfway up the stairs, 
however, they checked momentarily, and after the manner 
of good sleuths cast back to the hall again. To Michael’s 
relief the scent lay finally along the passage leading to 
the back premises. In a stone-paved scullery, a dark and 
cheerless place, there was another check due to the pres¬ 
ence of a locked and bolted door. Major Norton frowned 
with bewilderment. 

“Dashed funny, this! If our friend went out that way, 
who the deuce locked the door after him?” 

Again Michael was uncomfortably aware it lay in his 
power to answer that question. Instead of doing so he 
turned the key and drew back the bolts. Beyond was a 
wilderness that had once been a kitchen garden, with the 
remains of a cinder path down the middle. Straight along 
this path Barrister and Wardress led them to a wicket 
gate at the end. The gate gave on to the public footpath 
that wound deviously from the village across the Takyll 
Place lands. Without checking the hounds took the direc¬ 
tion of Takyll Place. 

To their left the ground fell away in a great water-worn 


70 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

curve to the tarn below. It had been a considerable lake 
until two centuries of drainage had reduced its level to 
the stretch of still, tree-hung water that was now little 
more than a turbid pond, shelving conelike to its center. 
An ancient punt floated sluggishly at its mooring rope. 
Around half the rim of this basin of landscape Barrister 
and Wardress quested the footpath until Major Norton 
halted thoughtfully. 

“This,” he observed, “is getting very interesting. But 
I don’t know that we’re justified in sniffing round Harn- 
ley’s property without his permission. Speaking as a mag¬ 
istrate it strikes me as irregular.” He paused, staring 
doubtfully along the path. In the middle distance a lanky 
figure in ridiculous khaki shorts was seated on a fallen 
tree trunk, occupied with a Thermos flask and a packet 
of sandwiches. 

“What blots on the landscape these hikers are,” the 
Major went on. “Now where have I seen those knickers 
before?” 

“We gave them a lift from the station yesterday,” Jill 
enlightened her father. 

“Ha! So we did! Well, I don’t suppose there’s anything 
sinister there!” Major Norton grunted with amusement. 
“Though of course it’s important to look out for strangers 
in the neighborhood and keep ’em tagged. We’d best be 
getting back now, and I’ll try ’phoning Iiarnley for per¬ 
mission to do a little sleuthing round his house. If you 
ask me, his answer’s going to be rude.” 

Michael lit his pipe. That chance remark of Major 
Norton’s had set him thinking. It was important to keep 
strangers tagged while such strange doings were afoot 
in Bishops Takyll. 

And who the devil was this hiker chap, anyhow? 

Barrister and Wardress puckered their foreheads dis¬ 
gustedly as they were dragged back from the scent. 


Chapter IX 


Dear Mr. Chillaton, 

I have given some thought to the subject of your call 
here, and I have decided that although this is not a case 
in which our intervention is likely to be required, it may 
nevertheless be advisable to maintain unofficial contact. 
Accordingly, with the permission of the Chief Constable 
of the County, I have arranged to send Mr. Paunceforte, 
about whom I spoke to you. As explained, Paunceforte’s 
status at Scotland Yard is that of an auxiliary or free¬ 
lance detection agent, an innovation not entirely popular 
with the regular police, but one that finds increasing favor 
among our Continental colleagues. Should Paunceforte 
decide to enlist your aid please do all you can for him. 
He has very generously offered to forego a fortnight’s 
holiday in your interests. 

Yours very truly, 

A. H. L. E. Tankerville, Lt. Col., 
Assistant-Commissioner of Police 

Michael read this missive with mixed emotions. Fol¬ 
lowing the Assistant-Commissioner’s scornfully expressed 


72 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

skepticism he had reason to be grateful for this official 
change of heart. On the other hand, any detective worthy 
of the name would undoubtedly discover the existence of 
a certain young woman in the unoccupied wing at Takyll 
Place. And the thought of that attractive personality 
manacled to Mr. Paunceforte was intolerable. 

Yes, even though Harnley might be in dire peril. 

And yet, things couldn’t be allowed to slide. 

Damn! 

A sense of impotence kept Michael Chillaton on the 
edge of his nerves all that evening. The hiker was absent 
from dinner but a garrulous traveler took his place. Un¬ 
able, after dinner, to avoid the gentleman’s society, 
Michael sought refuge in his own bedroom with a noon¬ 
day issue of the Evening Standard. 

The bedroom was a large, chilly apartment with wall¬ 
paper of a depressing ginger hue, decorated by enormous 
engravings depicting grim incidents from the Old Testa¬ 
ment. Vases contained dried fancy grasses, and on the 
shelf above the high doorway was a marble bust of the 
first Duke of Wellington. Michael sank glumly into a 
basket chair by the fireless grate and unfolded the Evening 
Standard, a cheerless prelude to bed. 

A shock of surprise came, like a stab at his heart, as 
he met the gaze of Christine Abbott from the front page 
of the paper. It was a police photograph, and not even 
the rigid pose, harshly lighted full-face, could detract 
from the girl’s loveliness. They were the same delicate 
features he had seen so dimly within the Tarn House, 
even to the indomitably humorous curve of the lips, the 
same clear steady eyes. 

Michael stared into those eyes and read something in 
them that resolved his last fleeting doubts. He was glad, 
now, that he had let her go. 

On either side, stretching across the page, were official 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 73 

likenesses of the convicts Parkwell, Minser, and Neyland, 
and below each a repetition of the police descriptions. A 
column and a half headed: WHO IS THE CROOKS’ 
SHEPHERD? was devoted to police theories on the pos¬ 
sible course of the fugitives, and an ominously insistent 
warning of the penalties that would be meted out to those 
who harbored them. The police thought London con¬ 
tained the most probable hiding places. 

Michael laid down the paper. For much longer than 
he knew, he sat and gazed at the Duke of Wellington. 
But it was not the Duke he saw. Instead there rose before 
his vision a stone-mullioned window with one open case¬ 
ment, and within it the figure of a girl whose yellow hair 
gleamed in the October sunshine. 

He became aware, presently, of a strange quiet that 
hung about the inn. The faintly heard babel of voices 
had ceased, and footsteps no longer passed his door along 
the corridor. Michael looked at his watch and realized 
the passing of time. Yet the thought of sleep was fan¬ 
tastic. He rose and went downstairs. Old Sam Believer, 
engaged in sliding the massive bolts on the street door, 
turned in surprise at the sight of his guest. 

“Why, Mr. Chillaton, sir, I thought you’d gone to 
bed!” 

“No sleep for me, Sam. I’m going out.” 

Old Sam stood open-mouthed. 

“Going out, sir! What for!” 

Michael shrugged. 

“God knows! Call it insomnia. And give me a key.” 

Bewildered and slightly disapproving, old Sam took 
down a key from the nail in the wall. 

“That’s the yard door, sir. You’ll be less likely to 
disturb folks if you come in that way. It isn’t none of my 
business, of course—” He paused, but his guest failed to 
fill in the hiatus. Michael picked up his stick. 


74 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

“By the way, Sam,” he asked casually, “what’s the 
name of that funny bird you’ve got staying here?” 

“The hiking gentleman, sir? Simpkins is the name. 
And I don’t know as I’ve ever had a gentleman who spent 
less on drinks. One ginger beer a day and he’s finished.” 
Old Sam shook his head disgustedly. “It’s unnatcheral, sir. 
And what’s worse, it’s unprofitable.” 

He followed Michael to the street door and drew the 
bolts to let him out. A gusty wind blew in their faces, 
dissipating the comfortable warmth of the bar; a hint 
of cold rain came with it. Old Sam made no further ob¬ 
servations but his manner hinted that he found his 
guest’s behavior inexplicable. And as the door closed 
behind him Michael almost agreed. He made straight 
for the footpath to Takyll Place, alternately conscious 
of being a fool and a rather daring chap. What good, he 
asked himself, did he think this crazy expedition was 
going to do? Probably no earthly good at all, but what 
a hell of a chap he was for doing it. 

He had an electric torch in his pocket, but there was 
enough light in the stormy sky to keep him on the track. 
The wind increased, whining shrilly through the trees 
in a mournful cadence; the threat of rain grew ominous. 
Michael pressed on at an increased speed and presently 
broke into a steady run. Within five minutes he was at 
the drive leading up to the great mansion. 

Looking at his watch he saw that the hands stood close 
on midnight. Not so much as a chink of light showed 
from any window of the large edifice ahead of him. For a 
few moments he stood there, feeling silly, and in three 
quarters of a mind to beat a retreat. Eventually he went 
on, keeping to the grass border of the drive, the better to 
deaden his footsteps, until he halted directly beneath 
the unoccupied wing of the house. 

He looked up. The window he wanted was the eleventh 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 75 

from the end, on the second floor. He had marked it care¬ 
fully by the way the ivy grew just there. It was tough old 
ivy, capable of bearing many times his weight, but the 
height looked positively dangerous in that murky visibility. 
He’d look pretty silly, he reflected, if he slipped and broke 
a leg on those uninviting flagstones. Nevertheless he 
began to climb, taking each handhold with extreme care, 
thankful that the screaming wind drowned the rustling 
of the creeper, until his head drew level with the case¬ 
ment. He tried to peer in, but the blackness beyond those 
diamond panes was unfathomable. All he could tell was 
that the window possessed neither blind nor curtain. After 
an uneasy hesitation he drew out his torch and switched 
it into the room, almost instantly extinguishing it. 
The flash showed him bare floor boards, a wooden 
chair and a glimpse of a bed that had bedding on it. 
Another flash would show whether the bed was occupied 
or not. 

But to show light might reveal his presence to others 
than the occupant of that room—a risk that must not be 
undertaken. Very softly Michael rapped his knuckles 
against the casement. No sound was audible above the 
screech of wind and he rapped again, louder. This time 
he felt, rather than heard, a stir within the room as though 
someone had wakened and was listening tensely. Again 
he rapped and a girl’s voice called unevenly: “Who’s 
there?” 

Michael cupped one hand against his mouth. 

“Open the window!” 

He saw a vague movement of white across the room and 
guessed that she was putting on a dressing gown. Then 
came a click as the window fastening turned and the case¬ 
ment was thrust out. Michael swung sideways to avoid 
it, then leant inwards, with one arm across the sill. He 
could see her now, even catch the glint of her yellow 


76 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

hair in the light that came from the cloud-torn sky. He 
smiled at her disarmingly. 

“It seems to be our fate/’ he said, “to meet under these 
queer conditions. You do recognize me, I hope?” 

She nodded silently, defensively. There was no trace 
of fear in her demeanor. 

“Last time,” Michael went on, “you terminated what 
should have been an interesting acquaintance. It was my 
fault, really, for having such a rigid conception of public 
duty. You won’t run away now, will you?” 

He saw her smile faintly. 

“It would be rather difficult,” she said, “because the 
door is locked, and you seem to be monopolizing the 
window.” 

Michael hummed softly. 

“So that’s how things are? You walk out of one cooler 
into another? It doesn’t make sense to me. Won’t you 
explain?” 

She shook her head. 

“I can’t.” 

“Can’t or won’t?” 

“Can’t.” 

Michael scowled. 

“You’re telling me,” he said incredulously, “that you 
don’t know why you’re a prisoner here?” 

The girl smiled. It was good to see her smile. 

“Just that,” she said. “I don’t know why.” 

“And I suppose you’ll say also that you don’t know 
why you escaped from Hollbury?” 

“I didn’t escape; they took me out.” 

“They?” 

“Whoever they are.” 

“You don’t know who?” 

“No.” 

“Good God!” Michael muttered, staring at her. “Don’t 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 77 

you think you’d better let me take you back to prison? 
You’d be safe there.” 

She shook her head vehemently. 

“Never 1 You can give me away, of course. But if you 
are a—friend, you won’t.” 

“Then you are here of your own free will?” he asked, 
and the girl nodded. 

“Even as a prisoner?” 

He saw her hesitate. 

“I don’t know why I am locked in,” she confessed pres¬ 
ently. “Perhaps they are afraid that I shall not keep my 
—my bargain.” 

“Oh! So there is a bargain!” Michael hitched himself 
up on to the window sill and threw one leg across. “I am 
coming inside to hear about this bargain. And besides 
you’ll get pneumonia if you stand here any longer.” 

The girl tried to bar his way. 

“You mustn’t—it isn’t safe,” she pleaded; and then 
with a smile: “Ladies in Hollbury aren’t allowed gentle¬ 
men in their cells.” 

Michael chuckled and slipped into the room, closing 
the casement after him. 

“Now, Christine—” 

The girl shook her head. 

“I have nothing to say. You are Lord Harnley’s 
nephew. I was convicted of blackmailing Lord Harn- 
ley and sent to prison.” 

Michael took her by the shoulders and shook her gently. 

“And I am prepared to believe,” he said soberly, “that 
you never did anything of the kind. Now will you treat 
me as a pal?” 

“You are on Harnley’s side,” she declared quietly. 

“If by that you mean I won’t stand by and see him 
murdered—yes.” 

He felt her move uneasily in his grasp. 


78 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

“Why should anybody murder him?” 

“That’s what I want to find out. You’ll admit that 
there’s been one serious attempt, enough to provide what 
one might call sound reasons for believing him to be in 
danger. Are you aware that the escape of three other 
convicts besides yourself was engineered by your friend, 
the Crooks’ Shepherd?” 

He saw her frown in bewilderment. 

“The Crooks’ Shepherd?” 

“That conveys nothing to you?” 

“No, of course not—how ridiculous!” 

“They don’t show you newspapers here?” 

She shook her head. 

“Then I will enlighten you. The Crooks’ Shepherd’ is 
a sobriquet bestowed by the popular press and the criminal 
fraternity upon your mysterious friend. He has earned 
it by getting you and certain less desirable characters 
out of jug. Does it occur to you, Christine, that other 
occupants of this curious household may be under a simi¬ 
lar obligation to this altruistic person? Orson for one? 
And can you seriously believe that philanthropy is your 
friend’s motive?” 

She sighed in perplexity. 

“I understand only one thing,” she said. “In return 
for—for carrying out his wishes he would prove my in¬ 
nocence.” 

“And you believe that?” Michael queried ironically. 

“Yes. If I’m wrong what more have I to lose?” 

“Only another year or two of liberty, my dear, on the 
top of the five years already forfeited. It would be 
nasty, that.” 

“It is worth it,” Christine declared with emphasis. 

“All right,” Michael shrugged. “Tell me what it is you 
have to do.” 

“I have told you—I don’t know.” 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 79 

He gazed at her in the gloom, gently and reproachfully. 

“Is it possible/’ he asked, “that you are such a little 
mutt? Commit a second crime to absolve you from the 
first!” 

“No. There is to be nothing illegal. He—he promised 
that.” 

“So thoughtful of him. And when does the absolution 
take place?” 

She was silent, and he felt her shoulders droop a little 
as though some of the spirit had gone out of her. And 
a little of the hope. 

“I am sorry, Christine,” Michael said, dropping the 
ironic banter in his tone. “If you knew how pathetically 
crazy all this sounds!” 

“If you knew what Hollbury is like—!” 

“Better finish with Hollbury first.” 

“Five years!” 

“There’d be remissions. Say three years and a half. 
I’d help you—to clear this up, if you’ll let me,” Michael 
urged. 

But she shook her head. 

“It would be too late. Too long! The clues would be 
stale. No, I am going through with it.” 

Michael paused. 

“Very well,” he said presently. “At least tell me when 
you have to fulfill your part of the bargain.” 

“He is coming here to-morrow night. Now I have be¬ 
trayed him. If you bring the police here, you will betray 
me.” 

He laughed shortly. 

“Looks as if I’m getting involved with your friends. 
And suppose you are requested to kill my Uncle Harnley 
or commit some other and possibly less desirable crime?” 

“I shall refuse, of course.” 

Michael scowled anxiously. 


80 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

“I don’t like it, my dear. With those thugs—Orson, 
for example.” 

She laughed. 

“I am not afraid of Orson.” 

“I am,” Michael retorted. “Orson has jailbird written 
all over his ugly face. One of the Shepherd’s flock— 
unless he is the Crooks’ Shepherd.” 

“How absurd! He is—different!” 

“Quite the gentleman, in fact?” 

She nodded. “Yes, it is someone who is educated, at 
least.” 

“You would recognize him?” 

“No, I hardly saw him.” 

“A woman, perhaps?” 

“No, I don’t know—” The girl shook herself free. 
“What does it matter? Please go now.” 

Michael nodded deliberately. He had the air now of a 
man whose mind is made up. Walking to the casement he 
pushed it open. In the act of climbing out he stopped 
and turned to the girl. The wind was blowing her hair 
out in a golden shower and she looked almost ethereal. 

“To-morrow night,” he said, “you will leave the catch 
of this window unfastened. If you are not in the room 
the door will be left unlocked. Do you understand?” 

The girl was silent. “It may be dangerous,” she an¬ 
swered presently, “for you.” 

“Give me your promise. I will not intervene—unless 
it is necessary.” 

Again she hesitated; then gave a reluctant nod. Michael 
took her hand, pressed it for an instant, and was out of 
the window, clinging to the ivy in the blustering wind. 
Not until he had reached the stone flags below did he 
hear the casement close. 

He had started to run towards the terrace steps, his 
rubber-soled shoes making no sound, when a thin pencil 




81 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

of light seemed to dart out of the darkness. Instantly 
Michael halted, rigid with the instinct for danger. But 
he heard nothing beyond the wind’s moaning and saw 
no movement, though he strained his eyes towards the 
direction of the light. Presently it stabbed the darkness 
again, a tiny ray sweeping in an arc from one of the 
shuttered ground floor windows of the unoccupied wing. 
Someone, manifestly, had moved a lamp within the room, 
and the action had sent a narrow beam through a crack 
in the shutters. It had the effect of a miniature light¬ 
house. 

This, Michael decided, was interesting, so he moved 
silently towards the window. Within the casement the 
crack between the shutters gleamed brilliantly, yet the 
the space between casement and shutter—some six inches 
—effectively prevented a view into the room, and did not 
permit any audible sound to issue. 

The urge to know what was going on inside that room 
at such an hour, when all normal households sleep like 
law-abiding people, was too strong to resist. Trusting to 
the wind to drown any sound he might make, Michael 
inserted the point of his penknife into the leadwork of 
one of the diamond panes and began to cut it away. At 
the conclusion of a few minutes’ neat work he had removed 
the little pane of glass. 

Still not the smallest sound came from within the 
room. The ominous hush seemed to threaten him with a 
sudden attack, as though those within had foreknowledge 
of his intention and were biding their time. Uneasily 
Michael stared over his shoulder into the darkness, and 
waited. Every stirring shadow in the wind that blew 
seemed to be alive. It cost him an effort to turn again 
to the window and slip a hand into the opening to feel for 
the catch. 

A tiny little creak came from the rusty hinges and he 



82 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

checked rigidly, his heart in his mouth. He thanked God 
for this wind. He had the casement wide open presently, 
and by leaning forward could get his eye close to that 
crack between the shutters. The angle of view was very 
narrow but it showed him the room’s occupant, an elderly, 
clean-shaven man, slightly bald, who bent round- 
shouldered over his task. He was seated at a table upon 
which stood the lamp. There was no other furniture in 
the room and no other visible occupant. So absorbed was 
this singular individual in his task that manifestly he 
did not notice the increased clamor of the wind that came 
through the open casement and set the shutters in a sub¬ 
dued rataplan. Michael tried gently to steady the shut¬ 
ters with the pressure of his hand, but to little purpose. 
With the realization that every minute increased his dan¬ 
ger he stared again through the crack. 

Upon the table were a number of opened letters. The 
man held one of these letters close to his steel-rimmed 
spectacles and was scrutinizing it with minute thorough¬ 
ness. Presently he took up a magnifying lens and resumed 
his scrutiny with that. Letter after letter he examined. 
Then, drawing a blank sheet of paper before him, he began 
to write, very slowly and laboriously. So tediously meticu¬ 
lous were his movements that Michael was utterly per¬ 
plexed—until he observed the fact that the inkwell con¬ 
tained six or seven different pens, and that the studious 
old gentlemen changed his pen from time to time until 
he secured one with a nib that precisely answered his pur¬ 
pose. Then he began to write with more assurance, though 
never quickly. At the conclusion of two lines of calligra¬ 
phy he paused and compared his handiwork with one of 
the letters before him. The result, apparently, was satis¬ 
fying, for a smile crossed his benign features. Michael 
understood perfectly. He could not, however, detect whose 
handwriting was being forged. 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 83 

He had, he decided, seen enough, and it would be 
advisable to go while the going was good. He reclosed the 
casement softly, and because it would be impossible to 
replace the little pane of glass he threw it deep into the 
shrubbery. The gap in the window would have to speak 
for itself. 

He walked quickly toward the drive again, pausing on 
the edge to glance back at the dark mansion. The absence 
of light at any other window appeared to affirm that he 
had not disturbed its somewhat sinister peace. But im¬ 
mediately he became aware of a movement, away to his 
right, in a grass pathway that ran between high rhododen- 
drum shrubs. At first he took it for the low branch of a 
tree swinging laterally in the wind, but as he waited the 
figure of a man came dimly into view, peering with bent 
shoulders towards the house; standing not a dozen paces 
from where Michael stood. The man remained motion¬ 
less for several seconds, and to Michael it seemed that 
his gaze was fastened on Christine’s window. The thought 
sent a chill of uneasiness down the young man’s spine. 
Christine up there—in her isolated room of a deserted 
wing—with this unpleasant person lurking below. She 
seemed horribly unprotected, horribly remote. He waited, 
speculating on the identity of the figure, resolved that 
he would not quit his vigil until the other had removed 
himself from the vicinity, even if it meant waiting until 
dawn. He had virtually promised Christine that he would 
not intervene, nor make any move that might jeopardize 
her chances of obtaining those proofs of the frame-up 
against her. But he’d wait—and wait. It made him smile 
to realize that the safety of an escaped convict had become 
of more importance than the safety of Uncle Edward 
Harnley. 

The move came with disconcerting sharpness, so sud¬ 
denly that Michael had barely time to drop to his hands 


84 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

and knees as the figure turned. For just one instant it 
seemed that discovery in this unheroic posture must be 
inevitable, but the figure walked straight past him down 
the drive. 

Michael gave him thirty yards’ start and then followed. 
The wind still maintained its clamor but the threat of 
rain had dwindled with the racing clouds and a diffused 
moonlight shone fitfully. The man ahead turned from 
the drive towards the footpath for Bishop’s Takyll, and 
Michael hurried after him. Beyond the stile they were 
in open parkland, and without warning the man ahead 
glanced back. In that lack of cover concealment was im¬ 
possible, and Michael knew himself seen. The next in¬ 
stant, irresistibly, he was tearing over the ground in pur¬ 
suit of a figure that moved like the wind itself. 

It took a quarter of a mile all out before he drew level 
—reached out a hand. They went hurtling together on 
to the wet grass. Michael sat on his quarry for just long 
enough to regain breath. Then he turned the fellow over 
and switched on his torch. 

“Now, dogsbody,” he panted, “let’s have a look at you.” 

He broke off with a whistle of amazement. 

It was the hiker! 


Chapter X 


The captive was glaring furiously through his thick 
glasses. 

“G-g-get off my chest!” he snarled. “B-b-bally fool!” 

Michael’s amazement increased. This was not ex¬ 
actly the demeanor of a crook caught red-handed. Never¬ 
theless Michael continued to sit. 

“First,” he said, “let us hear what brings you to these 
peculiar haunts at an hour when all good little boys should 
be in bed.” 

The youth made a vicious attempt to wriggle free. 
Under the merciless light of the torch his face gleamed 
with sweat and his parted lips emitted a steamy breath. 
He had artificial teeth, Michael noted. Altogether an 
unpleasing person, this Mr. Simpkins. 

“Want to be sat on all night?” Michael demanded 
callously. 

“I d-deny your right to question me. It is a m-monstrous 
outrage!” 

“Ah! You consider you have a perfect right to trespass 
on Lord Harnley’s property?” 

“As g-good as yours!” snapped the youth. 

85 


86 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

“My reasons are excellent, I assure you. But probably 
yours are more interesting. The nocturnal habits of the 
Peeping Tom, for example? Eh!” Michael prodded his 
victim none too gently in the stomach. “Shall we go and 
tell Sergeant Bassett?” 

“Sergeant B-Bassett! Tchah!” 

Michael became frankly puzzled. 

“Look here,” he pointed out, “if you’re not a crook 
you’ve no business to behave like one. Snooping around 
private property in the small hours. You may not be 
aware that Lord Harnley is my uncle, a fact that causes 
me no particular gratification, but explains my right to 
snoop if I want to. You, on the other hand, are liable 
to turn the old man’s fancy to thoughts of mantraps. He’d 
never believe you were hunting the edible fungi or what¬ 
not. So unless I’m to squat on your carcass until dewy 
dawn you’d better come across.” 

Another frantic contortion answered him, and Michael 
gazed down at his indignant captive regretfully. 

“You don’t think I like sitting on these damned knobbly 
bones, do you?” 

“When I summons you for d-d-damages,” stuttered 
the other, “you’ll be sorry for this. You have committed 
an unp-p-provoked assault. You have attempted b-b-by 
violence to extract information t-t-to which you are not 
entitled. B-b-by some obscure p-p-process of your 
m-m-muddled b-b-brain you imagine that your relationship 
with Lord Harnley gives you the right to d-d-do so. That 
is all I have to say—for the p-p-present.” 

Michael whistled admiringly. In the circumstances it 
seemed a pretty good effort. He heaved himself off his 
couch. 

“Rise, Mr. Simpkins, please. If you can talk like that 
with 170 pounds on your malformed torso you are entitled 
to more respect than, I fear, I have shown you.” 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 87 

The captive rose, adjusted his disheveled clothing, and 
straightened his glasses. Except for the clicking of teeth 
these actions were performed in menacing silence. Michael 
surveyed him and found the spectacle unedifying. His 
curiosity, however, prevailed on him. 

“I suggest, Mr. Simpkins,” he said firmly, “that you 
volunteer a statement.” 

The youth glowered. 

“I am not p-p-prepared,” he stuttered, “to d-d-do any¬ 
thing of the sort.” 

“All right. Then come along. It’ll be your funeral.” 

“My b-business is p-p-private.” 

“I gathered as much,” Michael observed dryly. “The 
police will be interested in your private business.” 

The youth clicked his teeth again. He appeared to 
deliberate his reply. 

“It must be d-distinctly understood,” he said, after a 
long pause, “that you d-divulge nothing of this except 
in consultation with Scotland Yard.” 

It was Michael’s turn to stare. Suddenly he experienced 
a profound, and almost brotherly sympathy with Chief 
Inspector Gidleigh. 

“The mystery clears,” he said slowly. “I congratulate 
you on your disguise—Mr. Paunceforte.” 

The youth inclined his head in chilly acknowledgment. 

“Thank you. It appears hitherto to have b-been effica¬ 
cious. I suggest now that we return to the inn.” 

“And I,” replied Michael, “suggest that we have a 
little chat on the way.” He produced his cigarette case. 
“Smoke?” 

“Thank you, I d-d-do not indulge in tobacco.” 

Michael lit a cigarette. These abstemious detectives, he 
reflected, were not very lively company. Aloud, he re¬ 
marked: “It would be interesting, Mr. Paunceforte, to 
hear what progress your investigations have made.” 


88 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

Mr. Paunceforte began to hum softly. Beyond this 
he appeared unwilling to commit himself. 

“I take it,” Michael observed, carefully repressing an • 
inclination to give his companion a sock on the jaw, “that 
Colonel Tankerville has told you of the conversation I 
had with him. During the conversation he gave me the 
outline, so to speak, of your views.—Inspector Gid- 
leigh—” 

“I have no wish,” interrupted Mr. Paunceforte with 
bitter contempt, “to hear the Chief Inspector’s views, Mr. 
Chillaton.” 

Michael drew at his cigarette, with admirable control. 

“Curiously enough, Gidleigh didn’t appear to care much 
for yours,” he observed. “However, as I was saying, Colo¬ 
nel Tankerville—” 

“P-Pardon me, I do not consider that Colonel Tanker¬ 
ville was justified in. d-discussing the case with you.” 

Michael repressed a retort. For this callow outsider of 
the C.I.D. to refer thus to the Assistant-Commissioner was 
just a bit too strong. 

“Considering that I took him a letter in which my 
uncle appealed for protection from certain unspecified 
thugs, I think the Assistant-Commissioner was justified in 
discussing the case with me,” Michael averred with some 
heat. 

In the semidarkness he observed a mysterious smile on 
his companion’s lank features. Irritated, he added: 

“The fact that one attempt, at least, has been made 
on Lord Harnley’s life seems enough to warrant my pres¬ 
ence down here—if not yours.” 

Even this studied insult failed to elicit more than a 
scornful sniff. For the next hundred yards they proceeded 
in hostile silence. Finally the youth spoke: 

“If you take my advice, Mr. Chillaton,” he remarked, 
“you will leave the neighborhood without d-delay. Your 
presence here, far from doing any good, appears to irri- 



THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 89 

tate Lord Harnley to such an extent as to hamper my 
investigations.” 

More and more Michael found himself united in a 
spiritual bond with the absent Gidleigh. To bestow a kick 
in the pants on this police paragon would be ecstatic in¬ 
deed. With a sigh, however, he again controlled himself. 

“It appears to me,” pursued Mr. Paunceforte, “that 
Lord Harnley is at more p-pains to exclude you from his 
immediate environment than the criminals from whom 
you suppose he requires your p-protection. The result 
is he leads so cloistered an existence that it is impossible 
to get near him. I am convinced that in your absence 
Lord Harnley would be more accessible.” 

Michael shuffled angrily. There was something in this 
argument, perhaps, that his presence in Bishops Takyll 
could do no good, but he had no intention of leaving—yet. 
And no intention of confiding his reasons to this self- 
sufficient and superior, but unfortunately intelligent, de¬ 
tective. Did the fellow know of Christine Abbott’s pres¬ 
ence at Takyll Place? An unpleasant possibility, with 
deuced awkward implications also for Michael if his do¬ 
ings that night were an open book to his omniscient com¬ 
panion. It became suddenly vital that Michael should 
discover just how well informed Mr. Henry Paunceforte 
might be. 

“I’ll think about it,” he said evasively. “By the way, 
I suppose you’ll decline to tell me if you know what’s 
happened to Stopford?” 

“I d-do not know what has happened to Stopford,” an¬ 
swered Mr. Paunceforte in a tone that indicated that he 
would certainly not have enlightened Michael in any case. 

“You have observed Stopford’s successor, I take it,” 
Michael pursued carefully. 

“If you refer to Orson, I have observed him,” returned 
Mr. Paunceforte. 

“In that case it would be interesting to know whether 


90 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

your conclusion regarding Orson is the same as mine,” 
Michael went on, humorously conscious that he was catch¬ 
ing the infection of Mr. Paunceforte’s pedantic phrases. 

“And what, may I ask, are your conclusions, Mr. 
Chillaton?” 

“Only that Orson is better acquainted with the inside 
of a jail than most of us, Mr. Paunceforte.” 

“You are re-m-markably astute,” Mr. Paunceforte 
said ironically. Michael scowled hopelessly. It was some¬ 
thing of a relief when they halted under the covered arch¬ 
way of the Takyll Arms. Michael produced his key. 

“I presume,” he said, “that you informed Mr. Believer 
of your plans for spying on my uncle’s establishment. No? 
Then may I ask how you proposed to re-enter this inn, 
Mr. Paunceforte?” 

The young detective tightened his lips in manifest an¬ 
noyance at the question. 

“I d-did not desire my activities to be common gossip,” 
he replied coldly. “I therefore left the inn by way of my 
b-bedroom window, and it was my original intention to re¬ 
turn by the same means. Since you have a k-key, how¬ 
ever—” 

Michael smiled nastily and shook his head. 

“I think not,” he said. 

Inserting the key in the door he admitted himself, 
swiftly closed the door in his companion’s face, and shot 
the bolts. 

“I am afraid, Mr. Paunceforte,” he called through the 
panels, “that you will have to find your own way in. May 
I express the hope that you will discover that the window 
has been fastened in your absence by some assiduous maid. 
Alternatively, that every dog in Bishops Takyll will bite 
you. Good-night.” 

He walked softly to the back hall, lit a candle from the 
row that stood on the oak chest, and tip-toed up the creak- 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 91 

ing stairs with mixed feelings. The satisfaction at Mr. 
Paunceforte’s discomfiture was somewhat tempered by 
Michael’s growing conviction that he had behaved rather 
foolishly in antagonizing the detective. The fellow was 
enough to inspire a saint to murder, but this had been 
bad tactics, needless and rather petty. Anyhow, he wasn’t 
going back on it. 

Along the wide corridors, the candle in his hand threw 
weird shadows upon the high ceiling, like a huge genie 
that followed and hung over and menaced him. The inn 
had been built in the spacious days of the Regency, when 
Bishops Takyll was a posting place of some consequence 
by virtue of its situation midway between two far-distant 
county towns. They built lofty rooms in those times, 
though drafty and cold at this season of the year. As he 
turned the handle of his own room the candle spluttered 
violently and all but went out. 

Michael never knew what made him hesitate on the 
threshold of his bedroom that night. He had thrust the 
door slightly ajar and yet, inexplicably, had failed to enter 
at once. Then, suddenly irritated, he gave the door a push. 

The crash that ensued woke every soul in the Takyll 
Arms. Old Sam Believer came scurrying out dazed, with 
trousers pulled over his pajamas and braces flapping be¬ 
hind. Door after door opened along the corridor and 
tousled heads peered out, anxiously or angrily or stupidly. 

“Good Heavens, Mr. Chillaton, sir!” gasped old Sam. 
“Whatever’s the matter!” 

Michael pointed within the door where the first Duke 
of Wellington lay on his side with a broken nose. 

“Do you mean to say, sir, that it fell just as you was 
going in? God bless me, how did it do that!” Old Sam 
bent to peer at the bust as if expecting it to vouchsafe 
some explanation of its unwarrantable behavior; then he 
peered up at the shelf above the door. 


92 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

“Must be the shelf got loose, sir, and sloping. Gor. It’s 
a mercy you escaped it! Such a crack on the ’ead you’d 
’a had! Might ha’ killed you, sir.” 

Clicking his tongue concernedly old Sam dragged the 
bust against the wall of Michael’s room and up-ended it. 

“Would ’appen just when you choose this un’oly hour 
to come in, wouldn’t it, sir?” he added with a touch of 
resentment. “All right, ladies and gents, nothing to worry 
about. Just a little accident.” 

Michael glanced along the corridor as these reassuring 
words were spoken and observed the various heads with¬ 
draw. It occurred to him to wonder whether Mr. Paunce- 
forte had heard the crash. He answered old Sam’s some¬ 
what aggrieved “Good-night” mechanically and re-entered 
his room. Then by the light of the candle he bent down to 
examine the Duke of Wellington. The examination re¬ 
vealing nothing of interest, he stood on a chair and made 
the minutest inspection of the shelf over the door. 

Presently Michael found what he was looking for: a 
broken piece of black cord hanging from a rusty nail in 
the back of the shelf. Behind the door a similar piece of 
cord was fastened to a clothes hook. 

Just a little accident. 


Chapter XI 


In the early afternoon of next day the Assistant-Com¬ 
missioner received a packet expressed from Barnborough. 
The packet contained a report beginning: “I have the 
honor to submit for your consideration the following . . 
and ended: “I have the honor to be, Your obedient servant, 
Henry Paunceforte.” 

Colonel Tankerville sent for Chief Inspector Gidleigh, 
and bade that reluctant officer extend his ear. Gidleigh 
sank into a chair in doleful submission. 

“A very interesting report,” observed his Chief, rustling 
the papers pleasurably. “A little—hr’rm—verbose in 
places, but admirably detailed. Our young friend ap¬ 
pears to be employing his abilities to great advantage. 
Now we won’t for the moment trouble about the prelim¬ 
inaries, which are chiefly concerned with such precise mat¬ 
ters as local topography—all very correct and proper, but 
somewhat prolix. Omitting the first three paragraphs, then, 
we come to a description of a somewhat peculiar accident 
to Lord Harnley. It appears that Harnley was knocked 
down by a car which has not yet been traced and that the 
effect of his injury has been to make him even more ec¬ 
centric than formerly. Not only does he refuse to see 

93 



94 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

visitors, but he also refuses now to have anything to do 
with his nephew, Chillaton. What do you make of that, 
Gidleigh?” 

“What does Paunceforte make of it?” inquired the 
Inspector, lethargically. 

“Paunceforte considers that the services of a medical 
man should be obtained to inquire into the state of Lord 
Harnley’s mind. Unfortunately Harnley refuses to see a 
doctor and we cannot compel him. All this, of course, may 
be outside our province, but we have to follow up ap¬ 
parently irrelevant details in order to discover whether 
there is any justification in that letter to Chillaton. As 
you know, the Chief Constable of the County has given 
us permission to make private inquiries, and we are doing 
so by dint of Paunceforte’s semiofficial status, which 
enables him to work independently of the local police. 
Events may prove, of course, the need for regular inter¬ 
vention, in which case your service will be requisitioned. 
Now we come to two very peculiar items, which in my 
opinion show that there is something amiss with Lord 
Harnley’s affairs: firstly, the disappearance of the family 
butler, an old servant of thirty years’ service, and 
secondly the shooting of a valuable bloodhound. Paunce¬ 
forte considers that these events are connected with some 
design against Lord Harnley, and seems to regard the 
missing butler’s successor with a certain amount' of 
suspicion. Unfortunately, he says, he is quite unable to 
establish personal contact with Lord Harnley, or to enter 
Harnley’s house to pursue his investigations, and for the 
moment matters are at a standstill. For this state of 
affairs he holds Chillaton partly to blame and asks us to 
use our influence to persuade Chillaton to leave the 
neighborhood.” 

Chief Inspector Gidleigh’s boredom yielded momen¬ 
tarily to surprise. 


95 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

“Funny, that, sir.” 

“On the contrary I find it entirely reasonable. Chillaton, 
it seems, has been making himself a nuisance to Harnley by 
repeatedly seeking admission to Takyll Place after being 
as repeatedly told that his company is not required. 
Harnley, of course, has changed his mind about his nephew. 
Either he no longer trusts him, which is Paunceforte’s 
view, or he no longer believes himself in danger, which 
is not Paunceforte’s view, though Paunceforte is not 
absolutely satisfied yet as to the existence of any danger. 
It is possible, he states, that these peculiar local happen¬ 
ings are fortuitous and unconnected. In any case Chilla- 
ton’s continued presence in Bishops Takyll seems to 
have hindered investigations by making Harnley more in¬ 
accessible than ever. 

The Assistant-Commissioner turned a page of the re¬ 
port. 

“Much of this is a trifle—hr’m—redundant,” he ob¬ 
served. “It concludes with the request that communica¬ 
tions be addressed to Henry Simpkins, at the Takyll Arms, 
Bishops Takyll, Devon. Presumably Simpkins is Paunce¬ 
forte’s nom de guerre. I have now given you the gist of 
the report. Really I don’t see what we can do about 
Chillaton, however.” 

The Chief Inspector leant forward in his chair with 
a faintly perceptible awakening of interest. 

“Might I just look through the report for myself, sir? 
Thank you, sir.” 

He sat back and placed a pair of steel-rimmed spectacles 
upon his large nose. At the conclusion of the perusal he 
removed the spectacles and silently handed back the 
document. 

“Well?” demanded the Assistant-Commissioner, im¬ 
patiently. 

“Very interesting, sir. But, as you say, we can’t very 


96 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

well exert our influence on Mr. Chillaton. As a matter 
of fact it doesn’t seem altogether desirable for Mr. Chil¬ 
laton to leave. Only my impression, of course, sir.” 

Colonel Tankerville shot a resentful glance at his sub¬ 
ordinate. 

“Now what do you mean by that, hey! Of course I 
know that you regard Paunceforte as incompetent.” 

“Oh, no, sir, not at all. A little inexperienced, of course, 
but highly intelligent. Only I get the impression that Chil¬ 
laton wouldn’t do any harm by staying. It’s a funny 
thing,” concluded the Chief Inspector rather stupidly, 
“but Lord Harnley’s attitude to his nephew appears to 
me a good reason why Mr. Chillaton shouldn’t leave the 
neighborhood at present. Quite likely I’m wrong. Not 
being subtle, like Paunceforte—” 

He checked himself and sighed, as though with self- 
abasement. The Assistant-Commissioner frowned. 

“If you take my advice, Gidleigh,” he said, “you won’t 
indulge in these veiled sarcasms at the expense of a young 
colleague. The result of your own investigations into the 
matter of those escaped convicts hardly warrants that. 
To put it bluntly you have discovered precisely nothing. 
We do not expect miracles, of course.” 

Colonel Tankerville paused in such a manner as to im¬ 
ply that he did, in fact, expect miracles, and miracles 
should have been duly forthcoming. He drummed his 
knuckles on the desk. 

“No, sir,” Gidleigh shook his head lugubriously. ‘Mrs. 
Parkwell has a new fur coat—beautiful rabbit-sealskin, 
it is. She hasn’t heard from her husband, of course. The 
lady who passes as Minser’s wife has paid her rent, which 
was six weeks overdue, and bought a very natty radio set. 
Neyland’s young woman has vanished for the moment, but 
I shouldn’t wonder if she hasn’t been spending money, too. 
An expensive piece she was, I remember. I’m afraid it’s 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 97 

going to be difficult to find out where all that money came 
from, sir.” 

“Difficult!” the Assistant-Commissioner snorted. “Of 
course it’s difficult. That’s what detectives are for. You’re 
keeping a watch on those women, I hope.” 

“Yes, sir. But it’s my belief they got all their money be¬ 
fore the alarm was raised. From the clever person who 
arranged the escapes. It wouldn’t surprise me to be told 
that they don’t know where their menfolk are.” 

Colonel Tankerville scratched his chin. 

“Well, we’ve got to find those men somehow, Gidleigh, 
and the Abbott woman too, or there’ll be a fuss made. 
I’ve an idea Mr. Paunceforte would work on different 
lines.” 

Superintendent Gidleigh stood up with a sad smile. 

“Yes, sir. Don’t you think Paunceforte would look 
nice in the uniformed branch, sir? On point duty at the 
Elephant & Castle. Of course he might get knocked down, 
which would be a pity.” 

The door closed gently as the Superintendent made his 
exit. 

That particular day being appropriated to Petty Ses¬ 
sions at Barnborough Police Court, Major Norton had 
attended in his capacity as Justice of the Peace. Jill found 
herself at a loose end. Norton was a widower of ten years’ 
standing, and his daughter’s more than admirable rapid 
development may have derived from that unblessed state. 
It is certain that Jill at sixteen possessed wisdom and 
precocity beyond such few years, though mercifully 
leavened by a certain naive and childish enthusiasm. 

At the moment she was bored. Having nothing to do 
was nice when you didn’t want anything to do, but when 
it’s a fine afternoon and you’re just spoiling with surplus 
energy something must be done. Being Jill she made her 


98 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

decisions without much regard for discretion or expedience. 

Before his departure for Barnborough Major Norton 
had telephoned to Lord Harnley offering the services of 
his hounds in tracking the missing butler Stopford, and 
for the assailant, if such existed, of Lord Harnley himself. 
Norton had detailed in brief the little experiment tried in 
Michael Chillaton’s company. He had not seen fit to 
proceed further, he explained, because the trail might lead 
over part of the Takyll Place estate. Lord Harnley’s 
reply was of such vehemence as to render Major Norton 
speechless for nearly half an hour. Later, he explained 
to Jill that Lord Harnley, far from regarding the offer 
as neighborly or sporting, had declared it to be grossly 
offensive, interfering, and an unpardonable breach of good 
manners. Further, if Major Norton imagined that an 
absconding butler, plus a common motor accident, could 
possibly furnish grounds for the existence of a sinister 
criminal conspiracy, then he, Lord Harnley, was pro¬ 
foundly apprehensive for the Major’s mental state. Still 
further, Lord Harnley would be obliged if Major Norton 
would report these observations and remarks to Mr. 
Michael Chillaton, together with the most strenuous in¬ 
timation that Mr. Chillaton’s instant departure from the 
scenery would confer an inestimable boon upon Lord 
Harnley. In short Lord Harnley was quite at the top of 
his form. 

Jill had enjoyed the recital. But, being Jill and in need 
of stimulating occupation, she proposed to evade his 
lordship’s wishes. The thing could be done, she decided, 
without the appearance of doing it. Barrister and War¬ 
dress would be taken for a walk along the footpath and 
given a chance to recover the scent that had been so in¬ 
considerately denied them the previous day. The foot¬ 
path was a public right of way. If the scent should lead 
away from the footpath—well, she’d decide then what to 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 99 

do about it. A little mild excitement would be all to the 
good. 

Five minutes later, clad in a tight little jumper of elec¬ 
tric blue, with tweed skirt and a saucy little tweed hat 
worn much a slant, Jill once more made for the scene of 
Lord Harnley’s accident. Here, refreshed with good sniffs 
of the heel leather which Jill had taken the precaution of 
retaining, Barrister and Wardress, with less hesitation 
this time, set their noses in the direction of the Tarn 
House. Instead of entering the house, however, Jill dragged 
her charges round it and allowed them to recover the 
scent outside the back door. There, as before, she was 
pulled away through the garden and wicket gate to the 
footpath beyond. The adventure began. For the first half 
mile round the lip of the tarn, Barrister and Wardress 
quested steadily and very carefully in the manner of good 
sleuth-hounds, pausing occasionally to resolve a doubt, 
and occasionally casting back a few yards. But no definite 
check came until they were near the second stile and on 
the fringe of the Takyll Place park. Here, instead of keep¬ 
ing to the track, both animals sniffed in circles, the trans¬ 
verse puckers on their dome-like foreheads giving them a 
curiously worried look. Jill, watching the maneuvers, 
nodded wisely to herself. 

“The scent goes two ways,” she thought. “They’re not 
sure which to take. Probably one’s fresh and the other’s 
old—” 

It was Wardress, the sagacious old bitch, who decided, 
and Jill found herself pulled energetically away from the 
footpath across the field in a direction which she knew 
would take her somewhere in the region of Lord Harnley’s 
walled-in garden at the rear of the great house. For the 
first time she felt a qualm of uneasiness. It would be 
awkward if she were to meet anyone after Lord Harnley 
had made known his views on the subject of sleuthing. 


100 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

Not that she was likely to see Lord Harnley or any of his 
new indoor servants. The danger lay in being observed 
with these too conspicuous animals by some casual em¬ 
ployee, who might recount the circumstance to others until 
it reached the small talk of the servants’ hall. And then it 
might get to Harnley’s ears, involving the sequel of an¬ 
other pretty bitter conversation over the telephone with 
Dad—who would be as angry as he ever was with Jill, 
which wasn’t very angry, after all— By the time Jill 
had finished these soliloquies she was a quarter of a mile 
further on the way to trouble. After all, she reflected, 
she knew most of the outdoor servants and gardeners. 
She might share this secret by an appeal to sportsmanship, 
if she met one of them. 

The hounds were pulling faster now, in a wide detour 
that kept them out of view of the house and brought them 
presently to a door in the high walls of the kitchen gardens. 
The door was just ajar, and through it Jill caught a 
glimpse of trim box borders, phalanxes of chrysanthemums, 
and long rows of glass houses against the opposite wall. 
But the hounds were questing past the open door and 
Jill prepared to move on, thankful that at least she would 
not be required to enter that enclosure. Then suddenly 
the door was swung wide from within, and an elderly 
round-shouldered man stood facing her, his mouth open 
in mild astonishment, his pale blue eyes blinking through 
steel-rimmed spectacles. He wore the blue apron of a 
gardener and an ancient Panama clung to the back of his 
head. In one hand a pruning knife was grasped. 

Jill was quick to recover herself. 

“Good afternoon,” she said. “I don’t think I remember 
you. A new gardener, surely?” 

The man nodded, still staring fixedly. 

“Yes, miss,” his voice was curiously soft and gentle. 
“Were you—looking for anyone, miss?” His gaze strayed 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 101 

momentarily to Barrister and Wardress, who were strain¬ 
ing impatiently at their leashes, and his eyes seemed to 
flicker uneasily. 

Jill hesitated, then shook her head. 

“Oh, no,” she said brightly. “Just out for a walk with 
the hounds. Have you taken Carey’s place? I didn’t 
know he’d left.” 

The man nodded, fidgeting with the pruning knife. 
Jill’s quick eyes noted that his hands, though grimed with 
soil, were very unlike a gardener’s. The fingers were long 
and tapered ridiculously for a manual worker. 

“Well, I must be getting on,” she observed carelessly. 
“I see you’re busy pruning.” She glanced with simulated 
interest through the open doorway. “How very nice the 
garden looks.” 

She was uneasily conscious that her casualness was 
overdone, that he was looking at her with peculiar in¬ 
tentness. The urge to run away at that moment was 
very strong. But the man’s next words were as mild and 
inoffensive as anything could be. 

“Yes, miss, I was doing the geraniums. Taking the cut¬ 
tings, miss. They’ve got a fine lot of geraniums here.” 
His voice took on a note of queer enthusiasm. “The zonales 
and staghorns, now, a wonderful lot! There’ll be a rare 
show here next year. I only wish—” he broke off as though 
checking himself, and then added inconsequently, “I don’t 
suppose you’re specially interested in geraniums, miss.” 

Jill’s nervousness had vanished, to be succeeded by 
wonder. He was an odd character, the new gardener, she 
thought, with that voice and those hands, and his curious 
enthusiasm for geraniums at a time when no geraniums 
were in flower. Her curiosity piqued her to prolong the 
conversation. 

“Yes, of course I love geraniums,” she answered him, 
smiling. 


102 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

“Do you really, miss?” The man’s eyes glinted eagerly. 
“I always say that there isn’t a flower to touch them. 
The flower of the people, I say. For window boxes, now. 
Is there anything that can beat them for window boxes?” 

Odder and odder, Jill thought. Gardeners of the sort 
one finds on big country estates are not usually interested 
in window boxes. 

Unfortunately Barrister and Wardress were beginning 
to tug again in their impatience, and she decided to curb 
her curiosity for the present and take them home. 
Manifestly it would not be discreet to follow any more 
scent for the present. Then she heard a very low growl 
from old Wardress as light steps sounded upon the path 
within the walk. The next instant a woman came into 
view, halting abruptly in the doorway behind the gardener, 
who shifted his position quickly aside. Jill met the new¬ 
comer’s gaze, while her heart beat with unwonted fear. 


Chapter XII 


Barrister and old Wardress were growling ih unison 
as though aware of the hostility of this new presence. 
Jill jerked sharply at their leashes. The woman’s eyes ran 
over the girl’s figure in contemptuous appraisement of its 
immaturity, and Jill’s habitual aplomb began to ooze. 
There is an eon between the years of sixteen and thirty 
where the miscalled gentle sex is concerned, and Jill felt 
herself outmatched. She managed to bring out an awkward 
greeting, which was acknowledged by a faint hard smile. 
Jill next murmured something about taking the hounds 
home now, and the smile widened with a malicious curve 
of lacquer-red lips. 

“Such a pity you cannot stop,” the woman said drawl - 
ingly. “Even to introduce yourself.” 

“I am Jill Norton: Major Norton’s daughter,” Jill an¬ 
swered shortly. “I am sorry if you think I’ve been 
trespassing.” 

“Oh, not at all. But I don’t suppose you came all this 
way merely to talk to the gardener, did you?” 

“No, it was to exercise the hounds.” 

“Really? Do you always exercise them on other people’s 
property?” 

Jill found herself flushing. 

“How absurd! As if Lord Harnley minds! I’ve often 

103 


104 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

been this way before,” she said, struggling to control her 
resentment. “You must be a stranger here to say that!” 

The woman nodded amusedly. 

“So clever of you, Miss Norton. Yes, I am a new¬ 
comer, certainly. But at least I know enough of Lord 
Harnley’s wishes to tell you that he doesn’t much like 
people treating his grounds as a public park. In fact, I 
rather imagine Lord Harnley had something to say on the 
subject to your father not very long ago.” 

A glance with raised brows at the two fidgeting hounds 
accompanied the last words and Jill bit her lips. This 
was worse and worse. But the feeling of being cornered 
gave her a sort of desperate courage. 

“My father doesn’t know I’m here,” she declared 
bluntly, “and anyhow I don’t see what the fuss is about. 
You can tell Lord Harnley I think it’s horrid of him to 
treat his friends like poachers. I suppose you’ve come 
from London, or you’d understand that in the country we 
don’t behave like that. And that—” Jill concluded, “is 
all I have to say. Good afternoon!” 

She dragged at the hounds, uncomfortably aware that 
now the elderly gardener was grinning too. 

“I will give Lord Harnley your message, Miss Norton,” 
the woman said. “But it isn’t very polite, is it?” 

Jill shrugged angrily. 

“Lord Harnley doesn’t understand politeness,” she re¬ 
torted. “If you’re a friend of his you’ve probably found 
that out.” 

“I am Lord Harnley’s secretary, Miss Norton.” 

Jill’s stare was almost rude. 

“His secretary! Crikey!” 

The smile vanished momentarily. 

“You seemed surprised, Miss Norton.” 

Jill continued to stare at the expensive tailor-made 
clothes, flashing rings, and diamond-set wrist watch. 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 105 

“I am,” she said candidly. “You don’t look much like 
a secretary.” 

The smile returned, not very pleasantly. 

“Indeed? Perhaps that is a compliment.” 

The girl shrugged again. 

“All right, I didn’t mean to be rude,” she answered. 
“But you’re a bit different from—Miss Abbott.” 

“Miss Abbott? Ah, my predecessor! I gather that she 
left a little suddenly.” A titter of amusement followed and 
Jill set her teeth. 

“Christine Abbott was sent to prison for blackmailing 
Lord Harnley,” she answered fiercely. “And nothing will 
ever persuade me that she ever did anything of the sort. 
Christine was my pal.” 

“I must congratulate you on your friends. And now, 
before you go, Miss Norton, may I first offer a little ad- 
vice. 

Jill began to move away. 

“I shouldn’t worry,” she said with airy unconcern. 

“For your own good, Miss Norton.” 

“Too kind of you,” Jill retorted sweetly. 

The woman’s lips tightened. 

“Little fool!” she snapped. 

“Better than being something else,” Jill replied, still 
more sweetly. “Good afternoon.” 

She walked away quickly after that, but not so quickly 
as to miss a muffled guffaw from the gardener that 
heartened her like a cocktail. Not even Wellington after 
Waterloo was more exalted. 

She sped back to the footpath and took the direction 
of the village. An agreeable afternoon’s entertainment 
had been provided at the expense of a possible row with 
Lord Harnley, but Lord Harnley’s rows were too much of 
a commonplace to be disturbing. Jill felt tolerably well 
pleased with herself. 


106 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

Towards the wicket gate of the Tarn House she espied 
a young man smoking a pipe and moodily swinging a stick 
to and fro. 

“Oy, Michael!” Jill shrieked happily. 

Michael Chillaton waved the stick in acknowledgement. 
His demeanor displayed little enthusiasm. 

“You look,” observed Jill, drawing nearer, “about as 
cheerful as mud.” 

Michael relit his pipe morosely. 

“At the moment,” he answered, “I don’t see anything 
to be particularly cheerful about. Apparently you do.” 

Jill nodded serenely. 

“I’ve just taken Barrister and Wardress up to the 
Place for a good smell round. In sheer defiance of his 
lordship’s orders.” 

“It is the sort of damn silly thing you would do,” Mi¬ 
chael commented, discouragingly. 

“Don’t be a pig, Michael. I say, do you know your 
uncle’s just installed a most expensive-looking mistress?” 

Michael surveyed the child with cold reproach. 

“Apparently,” he said, “you are referring to Miss Ran¬ 
dall, my uncle’s new secretary. I don’t think you’re very 

• 55 

nice. 

“Secretary my foot!” retorted Jill scornfully, “she’s 
the real, slap-up dyed-in-scarlet liver-in-sin, or I’ve never 
met one. Michael, the plot thickens! There’s a new 
gardener there and he’s phony, too! 

“Hands like an artist, Michael, and the queerest blue 
eyes that squint ever so slightly and don’t look you 
straight in the face. And the crookedest mouth you ever 
saw.” 

“Who? My uncle’s new mistress?” 

“No, loopy! The new gardener. It’s my belief that 
the only gardening he ever did was in the backyard of a 
London slum.” 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 107 

The young man was worried. 

“Great Scott! It does thicken! The deuce of it is we 
can’t do anything without my uncle’s authority. And he 
being three parts bughouse in my opinion we shan’t 
get it. And then you go and ask me why I don’t look 
cheerful.” 

He paused to relight his pipe for the third time, and 
Jill whistled tunefully. 

“Poor old Mike,” she said. “In my opinion this village 
can do with a bit of excitement. Action’s what you want, 
Michael! Come on, I’m going to explore the Tarn House. 
There’s something fishy about that place, I’ll swear.” 

Michael shook his head quickly, in concealed alarm. 

“Rot! There’s nothing there—” 

“All right,” retorted Jill composedly, “then perhaps 
you’ll explain why Barrister and Wardress thought other¬ 
wise. May I remind you that the scent led straight through 
the front door.” 

“And straight out of the back door to the wicket gate,” 
Michael supplemented promptly. “Your mysterious crook 
merely took a short cut from the road to the footpath.” 

“And broke open the front door sooner than go round 
the house? Pish! Besides, the scent didn’t take ’em 
straight out of the back door. The hounds went halfway 
up the stairs first, remember, and then checked. All right, 
if you don’t want to come I’ll go by myself.” 

Jill strode jauntily to the wicket gate and pushed it 
open. With an uneasy shrug Michael followed. It wasn’t 
likely, he reflected, that any trace of Christine Abbot 
would remain but he found it hard to explain his own dis¬ 
like of the intrusion of others into the Tarn House. His 
virtual acquiesence in Christine’s concealment involved 
him in risk of serious trouble, but that wasn’t the reason. 

Jill pulled the hounds round to the front entrance and 
gave them the heel-leather to sniff once more. Through the 


108 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

front door they went again and halfway up the stairs. 
And here again they checked. But this time Jill dragged 
Barrister and Wardress up the treads, and Michael heard 
their paws padding along the bare landing. After a mo¬ 
ment’s hesitation he followed. Jill was thrusting in door 
after door. On the threshold of a bathroom with its enor¬ 
mous and ancient mahogany-surrounded tank the girl 
chuckled with merriment. 

“I’ve often wondered what Miss Hemstone looked like 
in her bath,” she said. “And now I know. Do look at 
that waste plug. It’s like a sluice-gate! And there’s 
actually a cake of soap!” She entered, picked the soap up 
and sniffed it critically. “Michael! This is new soap! 
And it’s damp! ” 

“Blame the caretaker,” answered Michael, with an 
airiness that concealed his growing anxiety. “Even care¬ 
takers wash sometimes.” 

“But there isn’t any caretaker here.” 

“Well, whoever comes to see that things are all right. 
Somebody probably keeps an eye on the place.” 

“And has a bath in that! Michael, you’re simply batty. 
Don’t you realize that this is a real live clue! Verbena- 
scented soap. I bet it’s a woman!” 

Michael relit his pipe for the fourth time and flung the 
spent match into the bath. “What a thing it is to have the 
dramatic mind,” he observed tolerantly. “I happen to use 
verbena soap myself. What are we going to do about it?” 

Jill gazed at the soap, fascinated, then carefully re¬ 
placed it. 

“The trouble with you, Michael, is that you lack imagi¬ 
nation. There’s more in that soap than meets the eye.” 

“Well, I don’t particularly like soap in my eyes. And 
the next thing?” 

Jill gazed at him searchingly. 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 109 

“What’s bitten you, Michael? You were rather keen 
on finding things out at first, and now you’ve gone all 
soggy.” 

Michael sucked at his pipe. “Dash this pipe. Won’t 
draw to-day. You know, I think those hounds are getting 
bored.” 

Pouting the girl turned back to the corridor. The next 
room she entered was the room. Michael followed grimly 
on her heels. 

“Nothing here, my good girl. Try the next.” 

But Jill strode into the room’s center and stood look¬ 
ing round. To Michael’s relief there seemed to be noth¬ 
ing there that could conceivably be regarded as a trace 
of human occupation; but presently Jill’s inquisitive eyes 
were attracted to the fireplace. 

“Look!” she cried triumphantly. 

The young man directed a blank look at the spot. 

“Crumbs, Michael!” 

“Crumbs?” 

“The remains,” Jill explained, controlling her excite¬ 
ment, “of a meal. Perhaps you’ll say that isn’t a clue? 
And look!” She pointed to the dust on the mantleshelf. 
“Someone has rested a cup or a Thermos here. Do you 
see those four little impressions. Fingermarks, Michael! 
And not a man’s fingermarks. Now I wonder if it’s your 
uncle’s new mistress—sorry, secretary.” 

But Michael w T as gazing with deliberate lack of in¬ 
terest out of the window. Suddenly he started. 

“I say, here’s our little Boy Scout playing at redskins!” 

Jill ran to his side and peered out. Below them, keep¬ 
ing to the shrubbery in such a manner as to obscure his 
presence from the road approached the hiker. The comical 
stealth of his movements caused Jill to grin, but the next 
moment she was looking thoughtful. 


110 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

“There’s something fishy about the little tyke,” she 
said incongruously. “I vote we lie low and see what 
he’s up to.” 

Michael chuckled. The prospect of an encounter be¬ 
tween Jill and Mr. Paunceforte contained possibilities. 
They watched the unsuspecting youth glance quickly back¬ 
wards before entering the porch. They heard the front 
door open and close. They heard his footsteps, care¬ 
fully muted, up the stairs. Presently old Wardress began 
to growl. 

“Hist!” Jill gave the leash a jerk and whispered. 
“Michael, he’s coming her el” 

The door, already ajar, was cautiously thrust in. Round 
it appeared the hatless head of Mr. Paunceforte, his om¬ 
niscient eyes distended in surprise. 

“Come in,” Michael called affably, and Mr. Paunce¬ 
forte entered, his thin lips tight with manifest annoyance. 
At the sight of him old Wardress lunged forward sud¬ 
denly with a sharp growl. Jill dragged her back. 

“It’s those knees of yours,” she explained distastefully. 
“If you’d wear trousers it’d be safer. And now suppose 
you tell us what brings you here.” 

The youth began to stutter a frigid reply when Michael 
intervened. 

“Let me introduce you, Jill. This is Mr. Perkins—or is 
it Simpkins? Miss Jill Norton. Miss Jill Norton—Mr. 
Simpkins—or is it Perkins?” 

The youth found his voice. 

“I g-gather, Mr. Chillaton, that you have not informed 
this lady as the reason for my pup-pup-pup—” 

“Quite correct, Mr. Paunce—Perkins. I have not. 
Your dreadful secret is safe with me.” 

Mr. Paunceforte drew a breath. 

“In that case,” he pursued, “p-perhaps you will kindly 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 111 

d-do so. I shall then require an explanation of your 
p-presence here.” 

Jill stared resentfully as Michael turned to her. 

“The great secret is out,” he said. “Allow me to 
present Mr. Henry Paunceforte, of the C.I.D. from Scot¬ 
land Yard. Incredible, but true.” 

Jill’s mouth dropped open. 

“A detective!” 

Mr. Paunceforte nodded unsmilingly. 

“Good lord! You don’t look much like a detective!” 
Jill ejaculated crudely. 

“He isn’t meant to,” Michael explained. “Hence the 
knickers. No detective has ever adopted such a disguise 
before. Effective and economical, at one-and-eleven the 
pair.” 

The youth glowered hostilely. 

“Now that my status is p-perfectly clear,” he said coldly, 
“p-perhaps you will k-kindly explain the meaning of this 
invasion of p-private p-premises.” 

Jill’s scarlet lips curled scornfully. 

“Don’t be silly. We’re doing the same as you, of course. 
Trying to find out who’s been living here. If you’re so 
clever perhaps you can help us.” 

“Indeed!” Mr. Paunceforte smiled acidly. “And • 
m-may I ask how you know anyone has b-been here?” 

For answer Jill pointed at the fireplace. “If you were a 
proper detective you’d go down on your knees with a 
magnifying glass and examine those crumbs,” she said. 
“Only I suppose you’d dirty your knees. Don’t come 
any nearer to Wardress, please. She can’t resist bones.” 

Mr. Paunceforte’s acid smile was succeeded by a still 
more acid scowl as he moved to the hearth, glanced 
briefly down, glanced again at the disturbed dust on the 
mantelshelf and shrugged his lean shoulders. 


112 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

“A tramp, p-probably.” 

His superior manner stung the girl to retort. 

“Marvelous! I suppose your tramp uses scented soap.” 

Mr. Paunceforte gazed in disdainful inquiry and Jill 
snapped: 

“In the bathroom.” 

The youth shrugged again. 

“It is p-possible. You are p-probably not aware that 
d-deserted empty houses are frequently used by such 
p-people.” 

“All right,” Jill snapped again. You’re welcome to your 
tramp. Personally I’m convinced it was a woman.” 

“There are such things as female tramps,” Michael 
suggested, thankful at the turn the conversation had 
taken. “Anyhow I think we’d better leave Mr. Paunce¬ 
forte to it and clear out.” 

The youth inclined his head superciliously. 

“You are right, Mr. Chillaton. By the way, it m-may 
interest you to know that there is a t-telegram waiting 
for you at the inn.” 

“Thanks,” Michael nodded. “Well, I’ll be getting 
along. Coming, Jill?” 

The girl tossed her curls and followed him from the 
room, dragging the hounds away from the magnetism of 
Mr. Paunceforte’s knees. In silence they descended the 
stairs and left the house. In the roadway Michael 
hesitated. It was on the tip of his tongue to confide his 
discovery of Christine Abbott to his youthful companion. 
He decided otherwise. They parted with casual fare¬ 
wells, a little cool on the girl’s part. Michael walked 
back to the Takyll Arms. 

Old Sam Believer met him with a telegram. 

It read: “You are requested to attend here this after¬ 
noon. Very urgent . Gidleigh” 

Michael thrust the telegram into his pocket. The ex- 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 113 

pression on his face was so curiously one of chagrin that 
old Sam was intrigued. 

“Not bad news, sir, I hope,” he ventured conversation¬ 
ally. 

“No. Just—inconvenient. I’m called to town on urgent 
business.” Michael scowled and shrugged. 

“You’ll be coming back, sir, I hope?” 

“Yes, to-morrow.” 

“Very good, sir.” Old Sam moved away, and then he 
turned back again. 

“By the way, Mr. Chillaton, sir, I’ve been looking at 
that shelf—the one with the bust on it, in your bedroom. 
Can’t make it out at all, Mr. Chillaton.” 

Michael grinned sardonically. 

“As firm as a rock that shelf is, sir. There wasn’t no 
call for that there bust to go slipping off—on to your head 
—it might have been— A nasty crack it’d have fetched 
you, sir,” pursued old Sam, wrinkling his brows worriedly. 
“Weighs ’alf a ’undredweight if it weighs an ounce— 
Howsever, I’ve not put it back, sir.” 

Michael grinned again. 

“Thanks, Sam. It’d be quite safe to put it back. That 
kind of accident doesn’t happen twice. And now I’ve got 
to catch the next train from Barnborough.” 

He drove the twelve miles to the junction town in a 
state of mental indecision and irritation. It should be 
possible —must be possible—to return to Bishops Takyll 
by midnight at the latest, or he would fail in his promise 
to Christine. She might not need him, of course, but he’d 
got to be there. On the other hand it was imperative to 
know what Scotland Yard had discovered that required 
his presence there so urgently. Perhaps the key to the 
whole mystery. 

He garaged the car and found himself with half an hour 
to wait for the London express. Chafing at this inactivity 



114 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

he entered a telephone booth and called up Scotland Yard, 
only to be informed that the Assistant-Commissioner was 
absent from his office at that moment. Still further 
irritated Michael demanded Gidleigh. The Chief In¬ 
spector’s impassive voice came unhurriedly over the 
wire: 

“Look here,” Michael snapped. “What’s up?” 

“What’s up, Mr. Chillaton?” 

“Curse it! That’s what I said. What’s up?” 

“Nothing’s up, Mr. Chillaton. I wish I could say 
otherwise.” 

“Well, but—why the deuce d’you want me at the 
Yard?” 

A pause, then: 

“I didn’t quite follow, Mr. Chillaton. At the Yard, did 
you say?” 

“That’s what your confounded telegram said.” 

“It’s the first I’ve heard of it, sir,” said the Chief 
Inspector’s wooden voice. 

It was Michael’s turn to be surprised. 

“I see,” he said presently. “Rather interesting, isn’t 
it?” 

“Very interesting, Mr. Chillaton. Sounds as if you were 
not exactly popular in that village of yours. And I gather 
his lordship wasn’t pleased to see you, after all.” 

“You seem to gather a lot,” Michael answered bitterly. 
“Do I communicate this interesting item to your Mr. 
Paunceforte?” 

An inarticulate but perfectly intelligible minor ex¬ 
plosion sounded over the wire. Michael grinned. 

“We seem to be in perfect agreement, Mr. Gidleigh. 
Any hope of your coming this way?” 

“Unfortunately not, sir. But may I ask a question? 
Just this, Mr. Chillaton: His lordship is a rich gentle¬ 
man?” 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 115 

“Warmish. Definitely warmish.” 

“And you will—excuse me—eventually benefit?” 

“I used to think so,” Michael answered dryly. 

A grunt came over the wire, that seemed to indicate 
amusement. 

“Would it be possible to say just about what his lord- 
ship is worth, Mr. Chillaton?” 

“Roughly half a million, I should say.” 

“A nice little round sum, that is,” the Chief Inspector 
observed respectfully. “Safely invested,' I shouldn’t 
wonder.” 

“National Chemical Stock; South African Gold Mines 
and Airliners, Ltd., I believe. Anything else I can tell 
you?” 

“That will be all, thank you, sir. Except that somehow 
I think I’d let ’em suppose that telegram’s done the trick. 
In other words I wouldn’t trouble to go back to that 
village for to-night. Some people don’t know what’s good 
for them, Mr. Chillaton.” 

“Ha!” Michael exclaimed, suddenly alert. “Do you 
know what’s good for Lord Harnley?” 

“No, sir. I wouldn’t go as far as that. But I could tell 
you what’s bad for the gentleman, sir.” 

“Well?” 

“All that money.” The Chief Inspector chuckled gruffly, 
and added with seeming irrelevance: “I suppose there 
aren’t any of our escaped convicts down your way?” 

For a split second Michael was off his guard, then he 
answered easily: 

“Not very likely, is it? With your Mr. Paunceforte 
on the warpath.” 

For the second time Superintendent Gidleigh emitted 
that explosive and highly impolite monosyllable. 



Chapter XIII 


“Martha!” said Miss Hemstone. 

Martha paused in the act of clearing away the remains 
of Miss Hemstone’s exceedingly frugal late supper. She 
hoped Miss Hemstone would not order the fire to be lit. 
It was close on nine o’clock and Miss Hemstone had been 
very unreasonable of late. 

“Yes, ma’am?” 

“I shall not require my hot milk to-night. You may 
go to bed when you choose.” 

“Yes, ma’am,” answered Martha thankfully. Bed for 
her was the supreme beatitude. She completed her task 
briskly and Miss Hemstone was left alone. 

For more than an hour the old woman sat there, an 
open book on her knees, but not one page had been turned 
when she closed and laid it aside. Rising, she went into 
the little hall and donned an ancient, moth-eaten fur 
coat, together with a hat of black straw that tilted oddly 
over her jutting features. Moving soundlessly she made 
her way through the back passage to the tradesmen’s 
door and let herself out into the garden, where, set in the 
privet hedge, a wicket gate led to the public footpath. It 

116 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 117 

was the same footpath that passed the back of the Tarn 
House, leading eventually around the rim of the Tarn 
basin towards the Takyll Place parkland, and was much 
in use by workers on the estate. At this hour, however, 
an encounter with any human being was in the highest 
degree unlikely. Nevertheless Miss Hemtsone proceeded 
watchfully in the fitful moonlight, ready at any instant to 
step from the footpath into the neighboring obscurity. 

Eventually she reached the wicked gate of the Tarn 
House, a distance of less than a mile, and let herself 
into the neglected kitchen garden. Here she stopped to 
stare fixedly at the black mass of the old house as though 
expecting some signal. Then she went on, picking her 
way between the tall weeds and brambles that caught at 
her clothes. 

Presently she halted again. From the main road she 
heard the deep hum of a motor engine, and saw the glare of 
its headlights in the sky. Miss Hemstone decided to wait 
until the car had passed. But to her surprise the engine 
hum grew lower as the car slackened speed; in another 
moment the lights died out. Next she heard the sound of 
squeaking hinges as the drive gate of the Tarn House was 
swung open. Then the restarting of the car. Another 
squeak told that the gate had been closed again. 

Miss Hemstone stood irresolute. This was a con¬ 
tingency she had not foreseen. After a few seconds 7 
hesitation only, for she did not lack courage and decision 
of a metallic kind, she took a path that brought her 
round the house in a wide enough detour to observe the 
car at rest in the drive without revealing herself. From 
where she now stood, her grotesque hat protruded between 
the branches of a ragged rhododendron bush a bare dozen 
yards away from the car. 

Its lamps were out, and the moonlight gleamed palely 
on opulent blue and chromium bodywork. The man at 


118 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

the wheel lit a cigarette as he alighted, and the flickering 
match revealed his face. Miss Hemstone tightened her 
lips. 

From the driver’s seat next came another man, a smaller 
fellow. The two proceeded to the rear of the car where 
a bulky package, canvas covered, was strapped to the 
luggage rack. Miss Hemstone watched them uncover 
this package and lift to the ground a battered tricycle. It 
seemed odd luggage for this expensive-looking car to 
carry, and at first she almost smiled. Then as a thought 
flashed through her mind the smile vanished. Miss Hem- 
stone’s white face became even more bloodless than usual, 
and the sickness of apprehension gripped her as the taller 
of the two men opened the rear door of the car. She heard 
him grunt with exertion as he strove to lift something 
within, then the other went to his aid. There emerged 
from the car a thick, inert shape that became revealed as 
yet another man. Miss Hemstone’s thin hands went to 
her mouth as she saw that this man was dead. 

Voices, muted into gasping undertones, floated towards 
her: 

“Heavy as Hell— Here, take his legs, can’t you—” 
and then the aggrieved retort: “What d’ye take me for? 
Camera? Two hundred pounds ’e is, if a h’ounce—” 

Curt instructions followed, and the dreadful bulk was 
laid on the weedy gravel, its upturned face a white blur 
in the moonlight. Then the taller of the two men pointed 
to the house and Miss Hemstone caught the word “rope.” 
The short man nodded and strode away. In another 
moment he had vanished within the front door of the 
Tarn House. 

For ten dreadful seconds Miss Hemstone stood still, 
her breath almost strangling her; then she protruded her 
pallid countenance still further between the rhododendron 
boughs and whispered a name. At the sound the tall 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 119 

man started as though he had been shot. In a couple 
of strides he was facing her, his torch blindingly on her 
face. 

“Christ!” he said. “You —” 

“The light,” gasped Miss Hemstone. “Put the light 
down!” 

He lowered the torch sharply. 

“Here! I thought I told you not to come here?” 

Miss Hemstone nodded. She was more mistress of 
herself now. 

“I know. But I had to come—to warn you—to go away. 
The police have been here. Sooner or later they will find 
out.” Her staring eyes strayed over the man’s shoulder 
at the thing on the gravel. 

“The police!” He whistled sharply, and then grinned. 
“If you mean that fatheaded Sergeant—” 

“No, it is a detective. I am sure of it. I have seen 
him here twice. Over in the grounds and once inside the 
house. He did not see me. He is dressed absurdly—in 
khaki shorts—” 

The man interrupted with a contemptuous guffaw. 

“That! If you think I’m afraid of him—” 

“I am,” said Miss Hemstone quickly. “He is dreadful. 
I can’t explain, but you must go away. I will send you 
money, somehow.” Again her eyes strayed over the 
man’s shoulder. “For pity’s sake tell me you had noth¬ 
ing to do with—” 

The tall man interrupted here, almost savagely. “No, 
I tell you!” He breathed deeply. “Now be sensible, for 
God’s sake! It was an accident. If he hadn’t been a 
fool, it wouldn’t have happened. Remember you are not 
to come here again, unless you want to wreck everything.” 

Miss Hemstone nodded uneasily. 

“You will be—careful,” she whispered. “It would 
break my heart—if you failed.” 


120 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

“Your heart!” The tall man laughed almost ironically, 
and yet not without a certain kindliness that caused a 
momentary flush on Miss Hemstone’s cheeks. “Hasn’t 
Harnley taught you to forget that you have one?” 

He turned sharply as the sound of footsteps came from 
the direction of the house. It was the short man return¬ 
ing with a coil of thin rope in his hands. Miss Hemstone 
drew back and stole through the kitchen garden once 
more to let herself through the wicket gate. As she stood 
there, panting for breath, the ghastly lunar radiance ac¬ 
centuated every line and wrinkle in her haggard old 
features, so that she seemed as ravaged by time as the 
very landscape. 

Far below, the moon’s reflection winked at her from the 
still surface of' the tarn. 

With the slow fading of daylight Christine’s eyes had 
become habituated to the almost total darkness that now 
enveloped her. Only the dim square of window relieved 
that gloom, and yet she was able to distinguish each 
object from the door handle to the fireplace and the 
solitary chair the room boasted. It was at the door handle 
that her gaze was fixed now as she sat on the bed, al¬ 
ternately hoping for the end of this vigil and yet dreading 
its consummation. 

She had no idea how long she had sat there when steps 
sounded in the corridor outside and a key was thrust into 
the lock. As the door opened a beam from an electric 
torch slanted to the floor and in its reflected light she 
recognized Bernice Randall. The woman was smiling 
curiously. 

“Your turn has come, Miss Abbott,” she said. 

Christine nodded and stood up. Her heart began to beat 
rapidly. 

“He is here?” she asked. 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 121 

“Yes; he is here. But we must be careful. Do exactly 
as I say, please.” The woman turned and led the way 
along the corridor in the direction of the servants’ wing. 
Christine, knowing every twist and turn in the great 
mansion realized that she was being taken towards one 
of the service staircases. This descended into the ground- 
floor passage that ran through the kitchen premises. At 
a right angle from this passage another took them towards 
the great central hall. Over the entire place an unearthly 
darkness hung. 

“Lord Harnley—” Christine began in an uneasy whis¬ 
per, when the other checked her swiftly. 

“Don’t speak! Lord Harnley will not trouble us to¬ 
night!” 

Bernice Randall halted, as if listening, outside the 
door of Harnley’s library. Then she turned her torch¬ 
light to the sliding door opposite and tapped gently. As 
an answering murmur came from within, a bracket clock 
high up the paneled wall struck with a sharp little ping. 
Involuntarily the girl turned to gaze up. It was just 
possible to see the clock face. Half past twelve. The 
next moment she was thrust gently but quickly within the 
study door. 

A deep radiance came from a single table lamp by the 
fireside, strangely enhancing the room’s size by its sur¬ 
rounding shadow. The torch in Bernice Randall’s hand 
was extinguished and Christine’s first impression was that 
she and this woman were the room’s sole occupants. But 
the next moment she felt, rather than saw, the figure of a 
man seated at the far end within the window recess. And 
she knew that this was the queer person who had been 
responsible for her removal from the walls of Hollbury 
Prison. 

The characteristic voice, preceded by that queer in¬ 
take of breath, floated towards her in a flat murmur. 


122 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

“Sit over there—by the lamp. Turn your—face 
towards me. Do not move—until I instruct you.” 

Christine obeyed. Bernice Randall remained standing, 
with her back to the door. 

“You will—now be given your—opportunity,” the man’s 
voice went on, “of acquiring proof—documentary proof 
—that you were not guilty of the—crime for which you 
were—convicted. Do you wish now to take that oppor¬ 
tunity?” 

“Yes,” Christine answered quietly, though the beat¬ 
ing of her heart seemed to suffocate her, and added, “on 
the one condition you have already promised me.” 

Again there came that curious intake of breath. 

“Was there a condition? Ah, I remember—” The voice 
paused. “There was to be no—commission of felony. 
My good girl, your—presence here and mine at this 
moment—already constitutes a felony— Really, I ad¬ 
vise you—not to be too nice.” 

Christine shook her head. 

“I did not mean that. Tell me what you want me to 
do. If I refuse you will understand what I do mean.” 

“If you refuse you will be incredibly—foolish. I do not 
think you could—possibly refuse—” Another intake of 
breath broke the sentence, then: 

“Do me the favor of glancing at that—portrait over 
there, Miss Abbott. It is a—three-quarter length of the 
second Baron Harnley, by Lely.” 

Christine turned her head. And her lips tightened. 

“You are aware, Miss Abbott, that behind that—portrait 
is a small safe—built into the wall.” 

The girl nodded, but did not speak. 

“The safe contains nothing of intrinsic value. That— 
also—you know?” 

Christine nodded. Then she spoke, correcting herself: 
“When I was Lord Harnley’s secretary it contained noth- 



THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 123 

ing beyond personal papers and account books. What it 
contains now I do not know.” 

“Then let me enlighten you. That safe contains the— 
proofs you require.” 

“How do you know?” 

A restrained exclamation of annoyance sounded from 
the window recess. Christine caught a glimpse of a white 
countenance and screwed-up eyes. Another intake of 
breath. 

“What a fool you are—to waste time over such— 
questions! How do I know anything? How did I— 
get you out of Hollbury Prison? How do I—deal with 
the hundred and one obstacles—to my—plans. I tell 
you that the safe holds incontestable—proof of your 
innocence and that is enough.” 

Christine gazed steadily at the speaker. But the fear 
in her heart was rising. 

“Tell me what you want me to do,” she said. 

“So you will be sensible. Very good! That safe— 
possesses, as you know, a—combination lock. There is— 
no reason to suppose that the—combination has been 
altered since your—secretaryship. If it has been altered, 
then 1—fear I shall have had my—trouble over you for 
nothing, and after a—brief interval it would be—necessary 
to return you to Hollbury, with your mission unaccom¬ 
plished and your innocence beyond the possibility of 
proof. What that means to you your own imagination 
will say—better than I. You recall the combination, of 
course?” 

Christine hesitated for a bare instant before she an¬ 
swered : 

“Yes.” 

“Then you will do me the favor of opening the safe?” 

Christine was silent. 

“Come, Miss Abbott!” 





124 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

“Give me time. I must think.” 

“There is no time to waste on thinking.” A deep intake 
of breath followed. “Very well, I will give you five 
minutes, no more.” 

“If you have lied to me,” Christine said, “I shall be 
worse off than ever. Why should I believe what you say?” 

“If I have lied to you, you will be no worse off. If I 
have spoken the truth you will gain—immeasurably.” 

“Why do you want me to open it?” 

The sound of indrawn breath came across the room. 

“That, my dear Miss Abbott, is a subject I must 
decline to discuss with you.” 

In the uneasy silence that followed Christine was aware 
of two pairs of eyes on her. Outside in the hall she could 
hear the bracket clock ticking, she wondered inconse- 
quently what Lord Harnley was doing. He would not 
trouble them, Bernice Randall had said, and those words 
seemed to imply that Harnley had been rendered in¬ 
capable of interference. Perhaps drugged by these queer 
unpleasant people who now awaited Christine’s answer. 
She had not thought them dangerous, or even unpleasant 
hitherto, but now she found herself growing frightened. 
The room had become gradually charged with hostility as 
an electric cell is charged, increasing its pressure until 
her very nerves began to tingle with alarm. 

It was Bernice Randall who spoke next, and softly as 
the words came they seemed to snap the silence like a 
twanged wire. 

“One minute more, Miss Abbott,” she murmured. 

Christine gripped the arms of the chair in which she 
sat to steady her body, to force control to her voice, which 
threatened to tremble. 

“Surely,” the woman went on, as softly, “you are very 
ungrateful to hesitate.” 

“I am not ungrateful. If I could believe you I would 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 125 

not hesitate. But—” the girl’s voice rose a little, despite 
her almost frenzied effort to keep it flat— “I do not be¬ 
lieve you and I will not open the safe.” 

Another silence fell, and Christine was aware of an 
exchange of glances between the man and woman. Though 
they spoke no word to each other she sensed that a 
message had passed between them. Presently came the 
indrawn gasp that was a prelude to the man’s every 
sentence. 

a You realize, of course—what this means to you, Miss 
Abbott?” 

Christine nodded. 

“You are prepared to return to the living death you have 
left. To prison food, prison clothes, prison labor, and jail¬ 
bird—associates. For almost a year—that has been your 
lot. For many years to come it will continue to be your 
lot, if you persist in this unbelievable—folly. Make no 
mistake about it—you are throwing away a chance that 
will never recur. If you do not open that safe it will be 
opened by force, a step I am reluctant to take for very 
—strong reasons. I should then destroy your proofs 
and with them every hope of your rehabilitation. Are 
you prepared to countenance that?” 

Christine kept her gaze fixed in the man’s direction. 
Her grasp of the chair arms tightened, but otherwise 
she gave no sign of her increasing terror. 

“I will not assist you in committing a crime,” she an¬ 
swered stonily. 

“I have not asked you to. Is it a crime to pry into 
another man’s papers? Call it simple curiosity, and don’t 
indulge in—moral quibbles. There is something I want 
to inspect in that safe. Perhaps—like you—my reason 
is connected with the desire to clear myself of some— 
charge.” Another intake of breath sounded: “Good God, 
what a fool you are!” 


126 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

Bernice Randall moved impatiently. 

“Your time is up, Miss Abbott!” 

Christine nodded and stood to her feet. 

“Yes, I am ready to go back!” 

“You refuse to help us?” 

“Yes, I cannot help you.” 

A sign, barely perceptible to the girl, came from the 
window recess. Bernice Randall turned abruptly and 
opened the door. Into the darkness she called in a low, 
distinct voice. A shuffling of feet answered her and drew 
nearer, until Orson, grinning shiftily, came into view. 
Within the room he stood regarding Christine with an un¬ 
easy stare. The door was closed again. From the window 
recess came a command, sharply spoken. Obediently, the 
butler moved towards the portrait of the second Baron 
Harnley and slid it along the rail from which it hung, 
disclosing in the wall behind a circular steel door, some 
eighteen inches across, which gleamed dully. 

The gasping voice spoke again: 

“Miss Abbott—be good enough to open that safe.” 

Christine, white now to the lips, stared at the speaker, 
and then, slowly her gaze moved to Bernice Randall 
and Orson standing side by side, the one critical, detached, 
the other licking his lips with manifest anxiety. 

Christine shook her head. 

“For the last time, Miss Abbott, will you—open that 
safe?” 

“No!” 

A gasp came from the window recess and then a curt 
command. Uncomfortably Orson moved his weight from 
one foot to the other. 

“If you don’t mind, guv-nor,” he answered in his 
peculiarly shrill voice, “this sort of thing ain’t quite in 
my line.” 



THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 127 

Again the command was spoken, with no more emphasis 
than at first, and this time Christine caught the words: 

“Gag the fool!” 

She became aware that Bernice Randall was approach¬ 
ing. In her hand the woman carried a silk scarf and a 
linen handkerchief. As Christine retreated involuntarily 
she felt her wrist grasped from behind by the butler and 
and held tightly in one set of bony fingers. Orson’s other 
hand swung over her shoulder and gripped her jaw. The 
pain forced the girl to utter a sharp cry and instantly the 
handkerchief was rammed with savage force into her open 
mouth by the woman. The next moment the silk scarf 
was tied tightly at the back of her neck, securing the gag 
in place. The bony hands thrust her forward until she 
stood beneath the safe. She was nearer now to the man in 
the window recess and could see his white features and 
screwed-up eyes revealed between the wide-brimmed hat 
and dark muffler that covered his mouth and chin. Again 
there came the curious intake of breath followed by words 
that seemed to come in a little rush. 

“Will you—open the safe now, Miss Abbott?” 

She shook her head vehemently. Sick with fear as she 
was, it did not seem possible that these people would 
actually do more than frighten her. But the man’s next 
words, gasped out in little more than a whisper, sent a 
cold thrill down her spine. Orson muttered uneasily and 
then squeaked out with sudden defiance: 

“Blast you! I’ll be damned if I will! Do your own 
bloody job, you—” 

Christine felt the grip on her wrists slacken. But the 
next moment Orson’s bony fingers tightened again almost 
savagely. Looking over her shoulder she saw something 
that gleamed in the hand of the man who sat in the window 
recess. 


128 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

“Do as I tell you!” came in a snarl. 

Orson’s voice died away protestingly, then he muttered 
behind the girl: 

“Best be sensible, miss. Open the blinkin’ safe and ’ave 
done with it. Else I’ll ’ave to ’urt you.” 

Christine shook her head again. But she knew it for a 
gesture that deceived no one, least of all herself. She met 
Bernice Randall’s gaze and saw that the woman was smiling 
contemptuously. 

“I shouldn’t waste time being heroic, if I were you, Miss 
Abbott. The cause isn’t worth it.” 

“That’s right,” came Orson’s voice again, wheedlingly. 
“I got my orders, miss, and you’ve got yours. It’s no man¬ 
ner of use me tryin’ to go against ’em with that cove sittin’ 
there and it ain’t no use you tryin’ to with me ’ere— 
Gawd!” 

He broke off with a squeak of surprise and involun¬ 
tarily released the girl’s wrists. As Christine swung round 
she saw that Orson was pointing at the door. A half- 
strangled exclamation came from the man in the window 
recess. 

“Quick, you fools! Quick! ” 

The door had opened, a bare six inches. A hand slipped 
through the opening and touched the light switch. The 
next moment the room was in darkness. 


Chapter XIV 


An instinct quicker than thought sent Christine towards 
the door. She heard Orson bump into Bernice Randall. 
He let out a strange mixture of apologies and oaths, fol¬ 
lowed by the woman’s cry: 

“The door, idiot! The door! ” 

Christine felt a man’s hand on hers. She was dragged 
into the hall and the door slammed with noise enough to 
wake every soul in the building. 

“Key’s on the inside, unfortunately,” said Michael’s 
voice coolly. ‘I hope you’re good for a sprint!” 

He pulled her across the hall and entered the room 
opposite. It was Harnley’s study, and as Michael closed 
and locked this door behind them they heard a stampede 
of footsteps in the hall. Someone rattled the door knob 
violently and then cursed. It was the unmistakable ac¬ 
cents of Orson. Deliberately Michael completed his task 
of removing Christine’s gag, then flung open the French 
windows. Out in the murk of the terrace he turned towards 
the wing that terminated in an immense glass conserva¬ 
tory. From the terrace at this point stone steps descended 
to the garden below. 


129 


130 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

But as they reached the end of the balustrading a shout 
echoed in the night air, and a man’s figure came hurtling 
up the long flight of steps towards them. Below him an¬ 
other man stood. Without hesitation Michael dashed his 
elbow against the glass door of the conservatory. With 
incredible swiftness he reached his arm through the jagged 
opening, turned the key and entered. A couple of flower 
pots crashed to the tiled floor as he plunged on with the 
girl towards the double doors that led to the long salon. 
These doors were unlocked and the two fugitives lurched 
into the salon, upsetting a table with bric-a-brac that clat¬ 
tered hideously to the floor. Somehow they got across to 
the window opposite. 

“Every blessed man, woman, and dog is on our trail,” 
Michael observed with a fierce chuckle. “We’ve got to 
get through that window, my child, or we’re sunk! My 
car’s halfway down the drive. If they knock me out, 
go to it.” He threw up the big sash. As a beam from his 
torch shot through the opening a shadow leapt out of the 
darkness against him, knocking the breath out of him and 
the torch from his hand. 

He heard Christine’s cry for help; scrambling up, he 
ran towards the sound. The room seemed filled with the 
scrabbling of feet but Michael, cool in this crisis, knew 
that there were not more than two adversaries in the black¬ 
ness around him. One of them, manifestly, had Christine 
in his grasp. Whether they were Harnley’s servants or the 
crooks made no odds. Christine must not be left in the 
hands of either. 

The young man’s outstretched hand touched a face 
—not a girl’s face. Instinctively he swung his right. A 
squeal of pain informed him that it was Orson. Michael 
called Christine’s name sharply, but no answer came. A 
desperate anxiety seized him and he ran in all directions, 
arms outstretched, calling the girl’s name. Nothing but 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 131 

silence. He paused, steadied his breath, and listened, 
straining his eyes in the darkness. It occurred to him to 
search for the light switch but his unfamiliarity with the 
precise disposition of the furniture involved the risk of 
too much delay. Somewhere in the big apartment Christine 
was being held captive by men with the priceless advantage 
of being on the defensive. At any moment reinforcements 
might arrive. Then the task would be hopeless. 

He became aware of a movement against the wall on 
his right, while a faint sound, between a sob and a sigh, 
seemed to rise from the floor. With extreme stealth he 
moved towards the sound and dropped to his knees. His 
outstretched hand touched slim silk-clad ankles, then a 
piece of cord that bound them together. He wasted no 
time trying to unfasten the knots or to cut the cord, but 
placed his arms under the limp body and lifted the girl 
soundlessly from the floor. 

The next few moments were the worst in his life. Be¬ 
yond doubt his opponents were waiting for him at the 
potential exits. There was the door, the window, and the 
conservatory. Which should he attempt? 

He made his decision with quite characteristic coolness. 
The window was still open, judging by the draft that 
swept in. So were the double doors to the conservatory. 
By making a feint towards the one he might achieve the 
other. He began to move, so softly that his footfalls on 
the thick carpet were noiseless. With the girl in his arms 
the greatest risk came from the sound of his own labored 
breathing. He played with the idea of freeing her bound 
ankles, but her very limpness told him he could expect 
no help from her in this crisis. 

Towards the conservatory doors he paused, for against 
the dim light that filtered through from the glasshouse 
beyond he saw the silhouette of two heads, bent watch¬ 
fully. Michael turned, moved back to the room’s center, 


132 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

and stared at the window opening, just discernible against 
the night sky. Then he stole towards it, step by step, his 
muscles braced. It seemed certain that on either side of 
the window eyes would be watching him. But he reached 
the window without so much as a sound or movement on 
the enemy’s part. 

He hesitated, his scalp tingling. The necessity for mak¬ 
ing a decision, with the handicap of this girl’s weight 
in his arms, forced him to risk the trap that might await 
him outside the window. So he climbed out, to find him¬ 
self standing on a flower bed with the cold wind in his 
face. Stars were twinkling in a cloudless sky. But he 
had the sensation of eyes all around him. The very at¬ 
mosphere was eerie, and Michael almost shivered. Set¬ 
ting his teeth, he began to run down the drive, expect¬ 
ing each moment the shot that should bring him down, 
or the onrush of concealed enemies. But he gained the 
car with no more disturbance than the thumping of a 
strained heart. 

Scarcely able to credit his good fortune he set the 
girl in the car and took the wheel. He drove like mad 
to the main gates, leapt out, and discovered that the 
gates were locked. Dismayed, he seized a handful of 
gravel and flung it at the window of the lodge. The agony 
of the succeeding moments deepened to despair as he re¬ 
alized that Mrs. Yeo was not in her cottage, that the 
lodge was, in fact, untenanted. They had seen to that! 

Michael reversed the car and raced back up the drive. 
Two hundred yards ahead a farm gate gave on to enclosed 
pasture and springing out again he lugged the gate open 
and drove into the field, bumping his way unevenly he 
knew not whither. Presently his sense of direction came 
back to him. By keeping roughly to his present bearing 
he would eventually come up against the hedge bordering 
the high road to Barnborough, Somewhere in that hedge 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 133 

there should be a gate. With his headlights full on Michael 
steered across country at a speed that caused the car 
to rock like a ship in a gale. 

Hitherto one idea only had monopolized his thoughts: 
to put as great a distance as possible between himself and 
Takyll Place in the shortest space of time. Now, however, 
he began to be perplexed about this escape with the girl. 
Beyond the first hectic moments, the whole escape had 
been too easy. They had him cold in the big house. They 
had let him walk calmly through the window without so 
much as a kick in the pants. With the girl! It wasn’t 
natural! 

The girl, of course, was going to be a fearful embar¬ 
rassment. But that didn’t explain why they had let her 
go. A lot of other things needed explaining, too, and Mi¬ 
chael had the uncomfortable feeling that he had been 
made a fool of in a way that would transpire later. 

The headlamps had now picked up the hedgerow, and 
Michael swung the car parallel to it. Fifty yards on he 
saw a swing-gate. It took him a bare two minutes to get 
outside and to bring the car to rest in the road beyond. 
Then he drew a deep breath and bent down to unfasten 
the cords that bound the girl’s ankles. She was leaning 
back in the cushions, her face averted from him, her whole 
poise listless and exhausted. A sudden anxiety seized the 
young man and reaching for her hand he felt her pulse. 
To his relief it was beating with perfect regularity. 

“Christine!” he said gently, and then, louder: “Chris¬ 
tine!” 

A little sigh escaped her, as of returning consciousness. 
Then a low gasping laugh. 

“Thank God you’re all right!” Michael breathed hap¬ 
pily. “This sort of thing is certainly shattering for the 
nerves. In fact, I wonder you don’t come to the conclusion 
that there’s no place like prison. And now, my good girl, 


134 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

tell me what the deuce I’m going to do with you, now I’ve 
got you.” 

Another laugh came, full-throated this time. 

“That,” said Michael’s companion, with a note of mock¬ 
ery in her voice, “is exactly what I’d rather like to know 
myself!” 

He turned and stared at her face in the darkness, when 
suddenly his heart missed a beat. 

“What—” Michael began unsteadily, and then with a 
movement quick with horror he snapped on the dashboard 
light. 

And saw the face of Bernice Randall. 




Chapter XV 


She lay back in the cushions while fresh peals of mer¬ 
riment echoed in the night air. To the young man, grimly 
suppressing an urge to throttle her, the sound was a paean 
of obscenity. At last her laughter subsided and she looked 
at him in silent amusement. 

“Well,” she said, “what are you going to do with me?” 

“I know what I’d like to do with you. What I shall 
do is another and simpler matter. A matter for the po¬ 
lice.” 

The smile went from her face, and she looked at him 
contemptuously. 

“The police! How stupid! And how unoriginal.” 

“Your sort of originality isn’t appreciated by the law, 
Miss Randall.” 

“The law! My poor deluded man, what crime are you 
going to charge me with?” 

“Suppose we say criminal conspiracy against Lord Harn- 
ley—for a start.” 

“Really?” The smile returned to those brilliant lips. 
“But for that charge you would need the testimony of Lord 
Harnley.” 


135 


136 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

“Ever hear of subpoenas?” Michael inquired gently. 

She shrugged with an air of boredom. 

“Subpoenas are not much use if the witness won’t give 
evidence, Simple Simon.” 

“You think Lord Harnley won’t give evidence against 
you, Miss Randall?” 

“I am quite certain that he would not,” she declared with 
such an air of finality that Michael’s memory flashed back 
to Jill Norton’s estimate of her position in the Takyll Place 
menage. If Harnley were under the spell of a senile in¬ 
fatuation he would certainly be even less amenable to 
reason than usual. None the less, Michael persisted dog¬ 
gedly: 

“Your other friends may be more communicative, Miss 
Randall. Orson, for one.” 

She turned and stared in withering scorn. 

“Are you suggesting that the butler is a friend of 
mine?” 

“Perhaps accomplice would be a better word,” said 
Michael carefully. “I have no wish to wound your vanity.” 

Bernice Randall shook her head pityingly. 

“Please do stop this pathetic nonsense,” she begged. 
“And give me a cigarette. Thank you so much. Don’t you 
think now you might take me back?” 

Michael felt his respect for Bernice Randall increase. 
Quite definitely she had poise. 

“So you expect me to return you to Lord Harnley?” 

She nodded coolly as she blew out a cloud of smoke. 

“You cannot very well leave me here, can you? So 
unless you propose to keep me I see no reasonable al¬ 
ternative.” 

“Not even the police station—as a reasonable alter¬ 
native?” 

“Must you harp on the police station in this monotonous 
way? Very well, let us suppose you take me there. What 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 137 

then? You will be asked to charge me. You have no 
charge that you can formulate—except one. And I do 
not think you are particularly keen to involve yourself 
—and someone else—in that” 

Michael was silent because there was no answer pos¬ 
sible. Her knowledge of his secret disconcerted him pro¬ 
foundly. Presently he spoke. 

“So long as she is in danger I will not rest. And if you 
harm her I will make you pay, every one of you, no mat¬ 
ter what the consequences may be to anybody. I hope I 
make myself clear?” 

His companion smiled, with narrowed eyes. 

“Delightfully clear, Mr. Chillaton. But I think you 
alarm yourself quite needlessly. And now, please, shall we 
start?” 

“For Takyll Place?” 

“Where else!” She laughed. “You must admit that 
our device for persuading you to leave without your prize, 
was prettily done. Incidentally it has given me the best 
thrill I have had for years. Even in my experience of— 
adventures.” 

“Which must be truly extensive,” Michael observed 
with oblique gallantry. “Very well, Miss Randall, I give 
you best—this time! And, by God, I will take you back! ” 

Jabbing the starter he reversed the car and swung back 
into the field. Neither spoke until Michael brought the 
car to rest beneath the great porch of Takyll Place. Then 
leaping out he banged grimly on the oaken doors. In al¬ 
most immediate response Orson’s ugly features appeared 
before them. At the sight of Michael and his companion 
the butler shut his eyes and laughed silently. 

“So you’ve brought the lady back, sir! His lordship’s 
in a rare stew about this! ’Arf ready to do murder about 
this, ’e is!” 

A step sounded in the gloom behind Orson and Michael 


138 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

glimpsed the tall thin figure of Orson’s master. He wore 
a quilted puce dressing gown and the scrap of sticking 
plaster on his face was given a ghostly prominence in the 
reflected light of the headlights. There was no illumina¬ 
tion within the hall, a fact that only long afterwards 
struck the young man as peculiar. At that moment his 
brain was seething with the problem of how to convince 
his crazy relative of the danger surrounding him. He was 
aware that Bernice Randall had slipped silently through 
the doorway and stood now at the old man’s side. The 
cigarette glowed vividly between her lips in the murky 
light. Michael felt his self-confidence ebb, and his un¬ 
easiness sharpen almost to fear. That unhallowed gleam 
in his uncle’s eyes was horrible. He forced himself to 
speak by a supreme effort, but his voice sounded like 
the voice of a stranger in his own ears. Before he could 
complete his first sentence he was interrupted with vehe¬ 
mence by the old man. 

“Get out, curse you! Before I order my servants to 
flog you for this outrage!” The cracking voice choked 
with rage and a pair of white, trembling hands raised 
themselves as though about to strike. Michael took a 
breath. 

“Uncle, listen—” 

“Listen! To you—!” 

“Let me explain, for Heaven’s sake!” 

“By God! You break into my house like a common 
thief! You smash my windows and my furniture! You 
attempt to force my safe. You abduct my—secretary. And 
you stand there and say that you will explain!” 

The crazed accents ended in an inarticulate screech. 
Michael caught the sound of a stifled laugh from Bernice 
Randall, and his temper rose fiercely at the callousness 
which could make capital out of an old man’s lunacy. 
But he set his teeth and persisted with grim control. 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 139 

“Give me five minutes alone in your study, sir. That’s 
all I ask.” 

“Alone! With you— Ha! Very likely!” 

Michael held himself in. 

“May I ask, sir, what is your objection?” 

“Now, young feller,” the butler broke in with smug 
reproval. “You didn’t ought to upset his lordship like 
this. I ask you, sir, is it reasonable to expect his lordship 
to shut hisself up alone in his study with a young gentle¬ 
man what has just be’aved with such shockin’ vi’lence? 
The best thing you can do is go away quiet, sir.” 

Bernice Randall laughed again. The young man looked 
at her gravely. 

“I wish I had your sense of humor, Miss Randall. You 
will find it useful—later on.” He then turned to the old 
man. 

“Since you won’t listen to a reasonable request I must 
content myself with telling you a few bare facts. Having 
discharged that duty I shall allow you to go to blazes at 
your own sweet will. This charming lady, sir, is a crook. 
Your butler, and probably the rest of your present so- 
called domestic staff are also crooks. What their ultimate 
object may be is not at the moment clear—” 

A deep breath came from the old man, like the gust prel¬ 
uding a tempest. Michael waited for the storm with 
resignation. It began like a rumble of thunder. 

“You— By God! You expect me to believe this 
twaddle?” 

“Quite the contrary, sir. I expect nothing so reason¬ 
able.” 

“You invade my house. There is no explanation of 
that” 

“A little amateur detective work, sir, merely.” 

“Bah! You abduct my secretary.” 

Despite himself, Michael grinned. 


140 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

“Perhaps Miss Randall will elucidate that,” he sug¬ 
gested, and heard her laugh once more. Apparently it 
was still a good joke. 

“You scurrilous young cur! You dare imply that this 
lady went with you of her own free will! It is a monstrous 
suggestion!” 

Michael shrugged coolly. 

“Really, sir, I don’t see much object in prolonging this 
little chat. In fact it seems rather futile.” 

Throaty rumblings in the semidarkness told that a fresh 
verbal onslaught was impending. 

“Either you are raving mad,” growled the old man 
hoarsely. “Or I am.” 

Michael nodded and turned away. It did not seem 
feasible to decide this difficult question to Lord Harnley’s 
satisfaction. He re-entered the car and started the engine. 
For the last time he heard the laughter of Bernice Randall, 
and then the massive oak doors were slammed shut. Mi¬ 
chael paused to glance up at Christine’s window, but the 
close casement revealed no light. It was not likely that 
she would be permitted to return there, he reflected. Yet 
she must still be somewhere concealed in this vast man¬ 
sion, at the mercy of the strange criminals who surrounded 
its master. How to save the girl from them, without dis¬ 
closing her to the tender mercies of Harnley or the police, 
was a desperate problem. 

But Michael, being young and charged with optimism, 
was determined to solve that problem. 

There was still an amused smile curving the vermilion 
lips of Bernice Randall as she moved, electric lamp in 
hand, along the gallery whose windows overlooked the 
terrace. Through door after door she went, until the 
dust-sheeted furniture of the unoccupied wing was reached. 
In a little room here—it had once been the boudoir of a 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 141 

former mistress of Takyll—she confronted Christine Ab¬ 
bott. The girl was lightly tied to a chair with cords that 
were knotted out of her reach, and she sat apathetically 
in silence as the cords were unfastened. Her face shone 
white and strained in the harsh light. She made no demur 
to the woman’s request and followed her through the silent 
house like one in a dream until they reached the hall once 
more. The bracket clock tinkled six sharp little strokes, 
and through the high stained-glass window above the 
stairway came the first grayness of dawn, but these tokens 
of the night’s passing held no meaning for Christine. 

The study door was opened and they passed in. There, 
as before, Christine saw the shadowy man in the window 
recess, and again, fidgeting with his uneasy smile, stood 
Orson. 

The man in the window recess spoke in his gasping 
voice. “I regret exceedingly, Miss Abbott, that the— 
interference of your misguided—friend should have caused 
this delay. You will be relieved to know that he has now 
—left us.” 

The voice paused for a fresh intake of breath, then 
it resumed: 

“May I ask, Miss Abbott, whether you are—now willing 
to assist us?” 

Mechanically, the girl nodded. 

“Thank you. Orson!” 

The butler moved forward and taking the girl’s arm led 
her to the safe in the wall. As one who acts with almost 
unconscious volition Christine turned the dials on the 
clock face. Then she depressed the safe handle and the 
little circular door swung open. 

“Thank you, Miss Abbott,” came the voice. “Will you 
—have the goodness to extract the contents of the safe in 
order to confirm my assertion that—it contains nothing 
of value?” 


142 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

Again the girl obeyed, drawing out, one by one, the slim 
account books, a checkbook, a bank passbook, an un¬ 
signed lease of a farm, two files of letters to a London 
stockbroker and several shillings’ worth of stamps. There 
was nothing more. She became aware, dully, of Orson’s 
grinning face. Then she turned round to face the man 
in the window recess. 

“The proofs,” she said in a low voice, “the proofs of—” 

Her voice died away into the unanswering hush of 
the room. 


Chapter XVI 


. . It is my considered opinion that failing definite 
evidence of a contrary nature during the next week or two 
weeks, nothing is to be gained by prosecuting further in¬ 
quiries in this district, the one apparently tangible incident 
of suspicious import having been resolved by a letter which 
I am informed reached Lord Harnley this morning from 
Stopford, the missing manservant. I am unable to discover 
details of this letter, beyond the fact that it arrived from 
Paris, but Lord Harnley states that he is satisfied with 
the explanation contained therein and does not wish the 
matter to be pursued further. The impression one gains, 
of course, is that Stopford had absconded with certain be¬ 
longings of his master, and that in view of the man’s long 
service Lord Harnley has no wish to prosecute. I shall 
take the first opportunity, needless to say, of informing 
Lord Harnley that even if no prosecution is intended the 
police must be informed of Stopford’s precise location, in 
view of the official inquiries already instituted. . . .” 

Colonel Tankerville sat back in his chair and blinked 
tiredly. He decided that in such matters as rendering 
official reports Mr. Henry Paunceforte would be an asset 
to most government departments, but that Scotland Yard 
liked things a bit more terse. He read on:— 

143 


144 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

“As stated, Lord Harnley has made it known that he 
no longer requires police protection, and, in fact, regards 
my activities here as an impertinence. Without subscribing 
to his lordship’s view that I should relinquish my super¬ 
vision forthwith I am disposed to agree that no danger to 
Lord Harnley’s person exists. There are, however, certain 
facts to which I desire to draw your attention. In the 
first place I am by no means satisfied as to the bona fides 
of the new staff at Takyll Place, who appear to me to con¬ 
sist of persons without previous domestic experience. The 
antecedents of these persons is my next concern. In the 
second place Lord Harnley’s behavior, in his choice of 
servants, as in other matters, appears to indicate some 
mental abnormality, and although he has, of course, a 
perfect right to indulge in these exhibitions of eccentricity 
it is my opinion that sooner or later the state of his mind 
will have to be inquired into. Since this is a matter out¬ 
side the province of the police, it should be the concern 
of Lord Harnley’s sister, the Honorable Miss Philadelphia 
Hemstone. I gather, however, that the relationship be¬ 
tween this lady and her brother is not a cordial one, and 
that she declines to intervene. Alternatively, of course, 
the matter should be inquired into by Lord Harnley’s 
nephew, Mr. Michael Chillaton, but it is a regrettable 
fact that Mr. Chillaton’s presence only serves to irritate 
Lord Harnley to such an extent as to convince me that 
Mr. Chillaton should leave the neighborhood forthwith, 
in favor of some other and possibly more acceptable 
relative. . . .” 

Colonel Tankerville sighed again: then he rang the 
bell. An orderly appeared. “Ask Chief-Inspector Gidleigh 
to come here, please,” the Assistant-Commissioner said 
abruptly. 

“Chief-Inspector Gidleigh, sir? He’s out on that case.” 

Colonel Tankerville scowled as he recalled this fact. 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 145 

“Hr’rm, I’d forgotten. That’s all.” 

The man hesitated. 

“The Chief-Inspector left a message for you, I under¬ 
stood, sir. Er—it’s there on your desk, sir, I think.” 

Colonel Tankerville laid down Mr. Paunceforte’s volu¬ 
minous report and bent his gaze on the litter of papers 
before him. He picked up a thin unopened envelope. 

“All right, Biggs; you needn’t wait.” 

“Sir.” The door closed. 

The Assistant-Commissioner opened the envelope. The 
enclosed sheet, beyond the formal official address bore 
characteristically little of Gidleigh’s calligraphy, in con¬ 
trast to Mr. Paunceforte’s:— 

“. . . There has been heavy selling of National Chemi¬ 
cal Stock held by Lord Harnley. Also South Africa Gold 
Mines and Airliners, Ltd. Same holder. Suggest that this 
is significant. . . .” 

Hugh Gidleigh, Chief-Inspector 

Colonel Tankerville’s bristly eyebrows rose in bewilder¬ 
ment. Significant? It was damned funny, anyhow. Why 
should Harnley be realizing his capital in this way? 

After five minutes’ intensive thought he started a 
vigorous letter to Mr. Henry Paunceforte. 

He pointed out, among other details, that the last 
person to blackmail Lord Harnley had been Christine 
Abbott. 

For once, Sam Believer’s beer tasted sour in the mouth. 
Sam himself was a bucolic old fool. Frequenters of the 
Takyll Arms stood condemned as half-wits or double- 
dyed nuisances. Thus the immediate universe as observed 
through the jaundiced gaze of Michael Chillaton. At 
twelve noon Dr. Lumsden sauntered in. 


146 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

“Hullo, Chillaton, how’s the amiable relative?” he que¬ 
ried breezily. 

Michael gazed coldly. It struck him that his first im¬ 
pression of Dr. Lumsden had been totally incorrect. Dr. 
Lumsden was, without doubt, an entirely objectionable 
fellow. 

“Thank you for your kind inquiries,” Michael answered 
discouragingly. “I am sorry I have no information to 
give you on the subject. Will you have a drink?” 

Dr. Lumsden cocked a searching eye at the young man 
and grunted. 

“Um, all right. Since you’re so pressing— Er, sorry if 
I’ve touched on a sore point. As a matter of fact it’s a 
subject that’s been occupying my mind a good bit lately.” 

Michael stared into his tankard. 

“Has it indeed?” he asked in somber tones. 

“Yes, it has indeed,” retorted the doctor bluntly. 
“Harnley was a patient of mine for a brief period, what¬ 
ever he is now. Look here—” The doctor lowered his 
voice and tapped the counter with emphasis. “There’s no 
use blinking at facts. Harnley’s going on in a queer way. 
In my opinion he ought to be under observation. In my 
opinion you ought to get a mental specialist along. Prob¬ 
ably you don’t want my opinion, in which case I shall 
merely observe that I have discharged my duty and wish 
you good morning. And for God’s sake don’t look at me 
as if I were a pathological monstrosity!” 

Michael averted his stare, took a pull at his tankard, 
drained it and pushed it towards old Sam Believer who 
hastily refilled it. Michael took another pull. 

“My inclination this morning,” he observed at large, 
“is to sock everyone present on the jaw.” 

Dr. Lumsden met old Sam’s glance. Old Sam winked. 
Mr. Chillaton was coming round, presumably. 

“We all has our off days, sir,” old Sam observed genially. 



THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 147 

“Wonderful what a lot o’ difference this nasty wet weather 
makes.” 

Michael surveyed the landlord morosely. 

“The conversation is restricted to mental specialists, 
Sam. You drag in the weather at your peril.” He turned 
abruptly to the doctor. “Sorry if I seem unpleasant, doc¬ 
tor. As a matter of fact I was hoping for an opportunity 
to talk to you.” 

Dr. Lumsden grinned ironically and said nothing. 

“You have inferred,” Michael went on, “that my uncle, 
Lord Harnley, is rapidly qualifying for a keeper. I agree. 
The point is, how do we set about it?” 

“If there’s one thing more than another that we medi¬ 
cal men dislike,” he remarked, “it’s being called in to 
certify lunatics. There have been lawsuits enough to make 
us very shy about signing along the dotted line. I advise 
you in the first instance to apply to a magistrate. There’s 
Norton, for example. The trouble is, of course, you have 
to prove that your uncle is incapable of managing his own 
affairs. And how you’re going to do that when he won’t 
allow you inside his front door I don’t know.” 

Michael grunted. 

“It doesn’t sound very helpful,” he commented. “First 
you advise me to get a mental specialist and then apply to 
a magistrate and then do the job myself.” 

“Well, anyhow, someone’s got to start the ball rolling. 
If you can’t, what about the servants?” 

Michael uttered a short, bitter laugh. 

“The servants appear to regard Uncle as an entirely 
satisfactory employer, my dear doctor. No, there will be 
no help forthcoming there!” 

“Urn. That new secretary, then—” 

“Secretary—! ” 

“Well, that’s when she calls herself, I believe,” observed 
Dr. Lumsden equably. “And very nice, too. But not 


148 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

evidence of insanity on your uncle’s part, I’m afraid. 
Still, he may start knocking her about, in which case 
she’d be a valuable witness.” 

Dr. Lumsden drained his tankard. Michael hunched 
his shoulders disgustedly and prepared to leave the bar. 
It hadn’t been an exactly profitable morning. And the 
thought of Christine worried him unceasingly. If only 
he had someone in whom he could safely confide about 
that delicate matter. 

The trill of a telephone bell sounded in Sam Believer’s 
back parlor and Sam hurried to answer it. A moment 
later he called out: 

“For you, Mr. Chillaton, sir. Speaking from Major 
Norton’s.” 

Michael raised the counter flap and passed through 
with a shrug betokening lack of interest, that changed 
into vague annoyance as he heard Jill’s clear voice over 
the wire: 

“Is that you, Michael? I say, I’ve got a most terrific 
brain wave about that old uncle of yours.” 

Michael grunted distrustfully. 

“What did you say, Michael?” 

“Nothing. I just grunted.” 

“Don’t be a pig. Look here, I want you to come round 
at once. It’s frightfully important. Daddy’s out again 
and we can have lunch together and then I’ll tell you.” 

“Very kind of you. Sorry, but—” 

“Oh, shut up! Are you coming?” 

“No.” 

“Why not?” 

“Too busy.” 

“Busy doing what?” 

“Just busy.” 

“That means you’re busy getting tight in the bar. If 
that’s your best excuse—” 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 149 

Michael interrupted coldly: 

“I am not getting tight in the bar, you impudent hussy.” 

“Yes, you are. I can smell beer from here. And if you 
feel like getting tight you’d much better do it on Daddy’s 
whisky. Michael, I warn you that unless you’re on the 
doormat within ten minutes I shall come to the Takyll 
Arms and get raving blotto in your presence.” 

Michael hung up the receiver and sighed. Within two 
minutes he was seated at the wheel of the car. Within 
five he was ringing Major Norton’s bell. Jill answered 
the door jubilantly. 

“I thought that’d fetch you,” she said. “Come right 
in and have a Monkey Gland to remove that funereal 
gloom. Afterwards we’ll have lunch. Michael, I’m cer¬ 
tain I’ve spotted the Big Crook himself in this game!” 

She led the way, a cocky little figure in jodhpurs and 
tight vermilion polo jersey. The concoction she prepared 
from gin, absinthe, grenadine, and orange juice was admi¬ 
rably calculated to enliven Michael’s view of the world 
in general and to incline him with more genial indulgence 
towards his precocious hostess. 

“It’s a good thing Daddy’s away,” Jill observed as 
they seated themselves at table under the disapproving 
eye of an elderly maid. “Because you look pretty squiffy 
and he’s distinctly old-fashioned on the subject of mixing 
drinks. Well, I hope you’re sober enough to listen to 
what I’ve got to say. All right, Spink, you needn’t wait.” 

The elderly maid sidled from the door resentfully and 
the door closed. Michael smiled expansively. 

“Bless us, young woman, what is the big mystery?” 

But Jill’s first words caused his heart to miss a beat. 

“Listen, Michael. Did you know Christine Abbott?” 

“Christine—!” Michael stammered. “I—er— No. 
That is—” 

“Goodness Michael, you are squiffy! Christine was 



150 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

old Harnley’s secretary for about two years, until they 
jugged her for blackmail. And if ever there was a put-up 
job that was.” 

Michael felt his heart warm suddenly towards his in¬ 
telligent young hostess. 

“I quite agree,” he declared heartily. “The whole thing 
was monstrous. Christine Abbott was no more capable 
of such a crime than—than—er—you were.” 

She regarded him curiously. 

“I thought you said you did not know her,” she re¬ 
marked, with a disconcertingly steady gaze, and Michael 
hid his confusion under a careful application to his lunch. 

“Quite correct,” he answered deliberately. “As it hap¬ 
pened I was never at Takyll Place while she was my 
uncle’s secretary. But I heard about the case, of course. 
It was preposterous to suppose that a girl like that would 
commit a crime like blackmail. You knew her, eh?” he 
asked the question casually. 

“Christine was my pal. That’s why I’m going to clear 
her—before she’s caught again. The first thing is to find 
out who planned her escape—and why. I think I know 
who —” Jill paused dramatically. “It’s not my fault if 
I’ve got a better brain than you. Now listen! The man 
who planned her escape was the man who got those other 
crooks out—Neyland and Minser and Bossy Parkwell. 
That’s not original. It’s in all the papers. And it’s as 
plain as can be that those escaped crooks are going to do 
what their master tells them or he’ll give them away.” 

“That’s not original, either.” 

“I know it isn’t. But this is. Those new servants at 
Takyll Place—” Jill paused again. “Michael, can’t you 
see? That butler Orson; the gardener who isn’t a gar¬ 
dener—” 

Michael helped himself to whisky and soda and held 
it up to the light reflectively. It was curious that this 






THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 151 

young girl should put one over on the erudite Paunceforte 
in this matter. 

“You’re suggesting that my uncle’s new servants are 
the escaped convicts. Why?” 

“I’m coming to that.” Jill looked a little disappointed. 
“It doesn’t seem to thrill you much.” 

“It does. More than you think/’ Michael answered 
truthfully. “Go on.” 

“Well, what’s the natural inference? If two of them 
are there, why not three—and why not the fourth?” 

“Meaning Christine Abbott?” Michael asked with per¬ 
fect steadiness. 

Jill nodded, her eyes wide with sudden excitement. 

“Yes. Think of it, Michael! The last place in all the 
world the police would search! Under the roof of the man 
she’s supposed to have blackmailed!” 

Michael took a sip at the whisky. 

“And what, exactly, do you propose to do about this?” 

“The first thing is to find out why she’s there.” 

“And who took her there.” 

“I know who took her there!” 

“Eh!” 

“There’s only one possible person. It’s so obvious that 
it sticks out a mile— Michael, can’t you see? First Stop- 
ford is got out of the way, because he’s honest, then the 
servants are gradually changed to these escaped convicts, 
who are going to carry out the plot—whatever it is.” 

“It sounds like a thick-ear melodrama. And who is the 
hissing villain behind the scenes?” 

Jill gazed at him. 

“Michael, you are dense!” 

“All right, who is it?” 

“Why, Harnley!” 


Chapter XVII 


With the whisky half-way to his lips, Michael set it 
down untasted. It spoke for his control that he spilt 
none. 

“Harnley! My dear, egregious child—” 

“Fm not egregious. That’s the one sensible explana¬ 
tion for what’s happening at Takyll Place. It’s much more 
absurd to suppose that Harnley could engage all those 
crooks without knowing it.” 

Michael shook his head skeptically. 

“I can’t swallow this, Jill.” 

She grimaced pityingly and went on eating. 

“Poor old Mike! Swallow some more whisky, then. 
And I thought you were bright! ” 

“If you can explain why my respectable uncle should 
dismiss his respectable servants in order to engage these 
thugs I might believe you.” 

“I can’t explain it. Except that your respectable uncle 
is evidently no longer respectable. Would a respectable 
uncle go and engage a female secretary like that Randall 
woman?” 

Michael blinked and took another go at the whisky. 
Recovering himself, he said: 

152 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 153 

“You’re suggesting that Miss—er—Randall is evidence 
of my uncle’s deterioration into criminal tendencies?” 

“No, I’m not. As far as I can gather it’s quite the thing 
for old gentlemen to engage fascinating secretaries or 
prowl about parks in the twilight. I’m just telling you that 
something pretty deep has happened to your uncle. At 
first I thought that accident the bther night must have 
made him go all haywire, but now I’m convinced it all 
started long before. Anyhow, he is nutty. And now I’m 
going to ring, so you’d better talk about the weather. 
Spink’s got ears like aerials.” 

The elderly maid heralded her re-entrance with a sus¬ 
picious sniff and having laid the dessert before her young 
mistress showed a disposition, as before, to linger. 

“Thank you, Spink,” Jill said sweetly. “You needn’t 
wait.” 

The door re-closed, a little sharply. Jill helped herself 
liberally to an over-rich trifle and pushed the dish towards 
her guest. Michael, declining firmly, reached for the 
cheese. 

“All the same,” he observed presently, “I’m hanged if 
I can see where this wonderful theory of yours is leading 
us. Suppose Harnley is the Crooks’ Shepherd himself, 
why in the name of all that’s demented should he want to 
release Christine Abbott?” 

“For the same reason that he released the others,” 
Jill answered patiently. “Whatever it may be. In my 
opinion he faked that blackmail case against Christine 
in the first place. Now he’s got her in his power. Michael, 
there’s something dirty going on in Takyll Place, and we 
ought to know what it is.” 

Michael was silent. As the result of half a minute’s swift 
cogitation he made his decision. 

“How much of this have you told your father?” 

Jill shook her head. 


154 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

“Nothing, as yet. I’ll tell him when he comes back, 
but he’ll only scoff.” 

“Well, don’t tell him for the moment—and I’ll tell 
you something.” 

Jill’s eyes widened. 

“All right!” 

“It’s just this,” Michael pursued deliberately. “In one 
respect, at least, your theory is quite correct.” 

“About your uncle?” the girl asked eagerly. 

“No; Christine Abbott!” 

“Chris—!” Jill half rose in her excitement. “Michael, 
you mean that she is— there!” 

Michael nodded. 

“And you never told me! You rotter!” Jill’s voice 
rose shrilly. 

“Of course I didn’t tell you. Is your father a magis¬ 
trate, or is he not?” 

Jill sat down again, with a gasp. 

“This,” she declared, “is absolutely super! I’m cleverer 
than I thought I was.” She paused, her eyes gleaming 
with excitement. “Michael, we’ve got to get her out of 
that!” 

“Wait a bit. You haven’t heard the whole story. Sup¬ 
pose you finish eating that concoction and come into the 
next room. I want to smoke.” 

Jill obeyed at lightning speed and leapt up to fling 
open the door, almost colliding with the maid, whose 
thin lips tightened as she stood aside to let them pass. 
In the study Jill helped herself to a cigarette and tossed 
the box to Michael. Michael tossed it back and pulled 
out his pipe. He filled the pipe with that deliberation 
peculiar to the man with a tale to tell, regardless of the 
sufferings of his audience. Then he related his meeting 
with Christine Abbott in the Tarn House on the evening 
of Harnley’s accident. 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 155 

“I knew it was a woman!” Jill exclaimed triumphantly. 
“Though that idiotic detective said it was just a tramp.” 

“A good job he did,” Michael commented dryly. “The 
sagacious Mr. Paunceforte has been my chief worry.” 

Jill wrinkled her brows. 

“What I don’t understand,” she said, “is why you 
didn’t give Christine away at the start.” 

“Because she gave me the slip,” Michael answered, 
puffing equably. 

“Well, but—afterwards. When you’d discovered she 
was at Takyll Place.” 

“Because I’d changed my mind about her,” Michael 
said, puffing a little harder. 

Jill gazed at him critically. 

“All right, go on,” she said briefly. 

The rest of the story followed without interruption until 
Michael reached the incident of Miss Bernice Randall’s 
involuntary abduction by himself. Jill lay back in her 
chair and laughed. 

“Glad it amuses you,” Michael observed woodenly, 
relighting his pipe. “Miss Randall seemed to find it funny, 
too. So did Orson. I doubt, however, whether it appealed 
to Christine Abbott’s sense of humor.” 

Jill nodded, sobered. 

“It was filthy luck. Of course, they’ll know you mean to 
try again.” 

“And be ready for me. Won’t be so easy.” 

“No, that’s why I’m going to help.” 

Michael surveyed her with an indulgent smile. 

“Very sporting, but again you’ve forgotten that magis¬ 
trate father of yours.” 

“We shouldn’t tell Daddy,” Jill pointed out coolly. 
“And it’s no use your trying to chuck your weight at me.” 
She frowned thoughtfully. “There’s one thing I don’t 
understand—at least it messes up my theory to a certain 


156 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

extent. You heard them trying to make Christine open 
the safe in the library. That doesn’t sound as if old Harn- 
ley could be in the graft. Unless he’s so cracked that he’s 
forgotten the combination.” 

Michael shook his head. 

“The explanation is not so simple, my dear. In fact, 
the more I dig into this problem the more it seems to have 
no bottom. The devil of it is we can’t begin to clear 
things up without setting the police on to the escaped 
convicts—assuming that they are convicts, and that in¬ 
volves your friend Christine.” 

“She seems to have become your friend, too,” Jill ob¬ 
served, with the directness of extreme youth. 

Michael kept his countenance. 

“I hope I am hers,” he answered. 

The girl nodded seriously. 

“It was Christine’s lucky day when she met you. Any¬ 
one else would have handed her over.” 

“It might have been the wisest thing.” 

“No; not so long as there’s the smallest chance of clear¬ 
ing her.” 

He shrugged. 

“Well, there’s the situation. We can only clear out that 
nest of crooks if we get Christine away first. And what’s 
to be done with her in that unlikely event Lord only knows. 
Do you realize that the penalty for harboring an escaped 
convict is— jug? Perhaps you’ll be convinced now that a 
magistrate’s daughter is not a suitable confederate for 
me?” 

Jill whistled pensively. 

“We might hide her in the Tarn House,” she said, dis¬ 
regarding the latter part of Michael’s speech. 

“Too risky. Our little Boy Scout might find her. De¬ 
pend on it, he would find her.” 

“Well, but—we can’t leave her where she is.” 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 157 

The young man scowled worriedly. 

“It seems to me/’ he observed, “that we ought first to 
find out whether this Crooks’ Shepherd—whoever he is— 
has kept his part of the bargain. Personally, I think all 
that was hokum. But if he has given a square deal we’d 
best not interfere.” 

“And if he hasn’t, we must get Christine away. The only 
person who can answer is Christine herself. Michael, I’m 
going to see her to-night!” 

“If you attempt anything of the sort,” Michael answered 
severely, “I will tell the Boy Scout, and Christine will go 
straight back to Hollbury Jail.” 

He rose and knocked the ashes out of his pipe. 

“I’m going now. There’s just one thing I’ll ask you to 
do. There’s a chance—merely a chance—that the funny 
people inside Takyll Place will be too much for me. If I 
don’t re-appear by to-morrow morning I think you’d bet¬ 
ter tell your guv’nor and get Sergeant Bassett on the 
job. It’ll mean that Christine Abbott will be safer in 
Hollbury Prison!” 

Chief-Inspector Gidleigh accepted a second cup of tea 
from his hostess and sipped appreciatively. 

“Thank you, Mrs. Minser. It’s a great pity, if you 
will allow me to say so, that other ladies in your—um— 
position are not so ladylike. Makes a lot of difference to 
chaps like me with delicate jobs to perform. And so you 
haven’t heard from your husband yet?” 

The lady addressed shook her head and sighed genteelly. 

“Very distressing it is to me, Mr. Gidleigh, as I’m 
sure you’ll understand. Having been brought up most 
respectable and all that. A little more fish paste?” 

The Inspector accepted gratefully, and during the 
pause that ensued allowed his gaze to wander round the 
select little apartment with its carefully arranged furni- 


158 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

ture and knick-knacks, including a pair of china side 
vases on the mantelpiece containing pipe tapers—evi¬ 
dence of wifely solicitude—and lace curtains that parted 
just sufficiently to ensure a view across the Fulham Road 
and yet guarded against intrusion into Mrs. Minser’s 
privacy. He observed, also, the new radio cabinet and 
among other evidences of restrained prosperity, Mrs. 
Minser’s nicely marcelled gray hair, and the effective ear 
pendants that completed a picture of chaste elegance not 
usual in ladies in Mrs. Minser’s “delicate position.” 

“It’s always been a great trial to me,” remarked Mrs. 
Minser patting her hair complacently, “the way Mr. 
Minser makes such mistakes. Not being that sort of 
gentleman really, his father having had the Unicorn down 
at Epping and a sidesman too, at St. Barnabas. The fact is, 
Mr. Minser’s an artist, and you know what artists are, 
Mr. Gidleigh. Will you take a little seed-cake?” 

The Inspector grinned at this reference to the absent 
Mr. Minser’s artistic temperament and accepted the seed¬ 
cake. 

“I expect you’re right, Mrs. Minser. Only having made 
the mistake, so to speak, you’ll agree that p’raps it’s best 
to finish—um—paying for them, rather than give us all this 
trouble and expense. It’d be more reasonable now, 
wouldn’t it?” 

Mrs. Minser inclined her head regretfully, and pro¬ 
ceeded to sip tea, crooking her little finger with the 
greatest refinement. 

“And so you still haven’t heard from him?” queried 
Chief-Inspector Gidleigh for the second time. 

He gave no sign of having observed the fleeting change 
of expression on his hostess’s countenance. A trace of a 
scowl creased one side of it. 

“I have not, Mr. Gidleigh, as I told you before. If I 
do, of course, I hope I shall know my duty.” Mrs. Minser 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 159 

laid down the cup and folded her hands in her lap, present¬ 
ing, as she smiled at her guest, a touching picture of af¬ 
flicted gentility. The Chief-Inspector coughed to conceal, 
no doubt, his emotion. 

“It’s a pity,” he remarked, shaking his head, “a great 
pity, because when we do find him, he’ll have to keep you 
waiting still longer. And I mustn’t disguise from you 
that we have one or two very likely clues. For instance, 
you’ll remember he stayed for a night at that little house 
of your friend by the railway embankment. No objection 
to a pipe madam?” 

“Excuse me , Mr. Gidleigh,” intervened Mrs. Minser 
promptly, “but the lady you just mentioned is no friend 
of mine.” 

The Chief-Inspector smiled sadly and proceeded to 
fill his pipe. 

“I hope you are right madam, I do indeed. But the lady 
has been talking a little more freely of late. You see, her 
husband’s in trouble too, unfortunately. It’s a curious 
thing—” the Chief-Inspector pursued irrelevantly, “that 
it was the main line to the West of England. Most—um— 
people in your husband’s predicament find it best to stay in 
London. Of course, it’s just possible he crossed the line 
and boarded a freight train going up, but there are certain 
indications that he didn’t.” Gidleigh reached out for a 
taper from the vase on the mantelpiece and lit it from 
the fire. “Do you remember a young lady named Miss 
Christine Abbott?” 

He fired the last question with singular abruptness be¬ 
tween puffs of smoke but Mrs. Minser’s calm remained 
unruffled. 

“To be sure I do, Mr. Gidleigh, and a very shocking 
case it was. Blackmailing a poor old gentleman, and a 
peer of the realm, too.” 

The Chief-Inspector nodded and reached for another 


160 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

pipe-lighter. Apparently the pipe drew badly. And ap¬ 
parently he failed to observe the expression of almost 
savage vindictiveness and something like fear that mo¬ 
mentarily disturbed his hostess’s features. Blowing out 
the taper, Gidleigh produced as if absently a folded sheet 
of newspaper. 

“Must be very inconvenient to you, Mrs. Minser, with 
the—um—wage-earner away so much.” From another 
pocket the Inspector extracted a pair of steel-rimmed 
glasses. Through them he surveyed his hostess solicitously. 
Mrs. Minser set her lips. 

“No doubt it is, Mr. Gidleigh, but I mustn’t complain. 
I has my little savings, fortunately.” 

“And when the little savings run out, what with radio 
sets and one thing and another—very awkward for you, 
madam.” Gidleigh’s tone was sympathetic. “And when 
remittances don’t turn up—in spite of little hints that it’s 
quite time they did—” He unfolded the newspaper and 
looked at its front page reflectively. “Little hints like 
this one, madam:— To C. S. Tide going out. Kindly 
avoid wrecks. M. A very plain little hint I’d call that. 
Too bad that no notice was taken of it.” He paused to 
shake his head, looked at the pipe and sighed to observe 
that it had gone out again. Another taper was extracted 
from the vase. “Of course I daresay the party concerned 
may feel he has been quite generous enough for the 
moment. Or maybe he doesn’t believe it’s in anyone’s 
power to arrange that—um—wreck. Eh?” He paused 
again to gaze mildly at his hostess and sucked at the 
obdurate pipe. She met his gaze with hard eyes now, 
hard and watchful. 

“So that’s it,” she said, speaking rapidly now, and 
between lips that barely parted. “Coming here to accept 
my hospitality and think you’re going to get that out of 
me. Well, let me tell you, Mr.—” 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 161 

The Chief-Inspector checked her with raised hand and 
deprecating smile. 

“Now, now, madam. Must I remind you that you asked 
me in? And do you know, it’s a funny thing, but I was 
under the impression that you asked me in to try and 
discover just how much the police do know about all this. 
You’ll correct me if I’m wrong, of course, but that’s my 
impression. Quite a mutual little affair, really. Don’t you 
think, Mrs. Minser, that you and I ought to work to¬ 
gether over this little matter? Now that we’ve cleared 
the air, so to speak. Dear me, this pipe—” 

“I don’t know what you mean,” said Mrs. Minser, a 
little shrilly, “but if you think I’m the sort of lady what 
mixes herself in low doings with the police, then you’re 
mistaken. I wouldn’t demean myself.” 

The Inspector looked reproachful and a little shocked. 
In his distress he took several pipe-lighters at once and 
slipped them into his pocket, a lapse that was fortunately 
concealed by the newspaper in his hand. 

“You quite misunderstand me, madam. No one is 
suggesting anything that isn’t proper. All I mean, in a 
friendly sort of way, is that p’raps a hint—just a hint— 
to that artistic husband of yours and he might do himself 
a bit of good, and no harm to you, either. Now I think we 
understand each other nicely, Mrs. Minser, eh?” 

Mrs. Minser’s thin lips set more tightly still before 
she jerked out a reply in tones that were no longer 
genteel. 

“That’s plain enough, you lousy cop,” she said. “Call 
it turning King’s Evidence and have done with it. Well, 
now you can listen to me for a bit—” 

Whereupon she let out a flood of obscenity while her 
guest sat in pained silence. 

“And that—” concluded Mrs. Minser, “is the answer, 


you 



162 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

With a sigh Chief-Inspector Gidleigh rose and sought 
his bowler hat. Yet he was not entirely displeased at the 
result of his visit, as he let himself out of Mrs. Minser’s 
door and mounted a bus for Whitehall. It is peculiar, too, 
that communing with himself on the upper deck of the 
bus he had no difficulty in keeping his pipe alight all the 
way to New Scotland Yard. 

He learnt as he entered his office that the Assistant- 
Commissioner desired to see him without delay. He shook 
his head with sad prognostications that were duly realized 
when Colonel Tankerville asked him to wade through 
Mr. Paunceforte’s latest effusion. 

“Very interesting, sir,” said Chief-Inspector Gidleigh, 
handing back the report. 

Colonel Tankerville snorted. 

“Glad you think so!” 

“But not exactly informative, if I might say so, sir. 
What one might call of a—er—negative nature, sir.” 

“Ha, you think so? Then let me tell you, Gidleigh, it 
is the first time I have known Paunceforte to make a 
positive mistake. Not, mind you, that a more experienced 
detective mightn’t have done the same in the circum¬ 
stances. You will be prepared, Gidleigh, to start at once 
for Bishop’s Takyll.” 

“Me, sir?” The Inspector was startled. 

“Exactly. The Chief-Constable of the district has 
applied through the Home Office for Scotland Yard 
assistance. Our intervention now becomes official. None 
the less, you would be well advised to confer with Paunce¬ 
forte, who has the advantage of much preliminary knowl¬ 
edge of the district and its residents. His views on the 
present discovery will be important.” 

Gidleigh swallowed his irritation at his chief’s instruc¬ 
tions and waited. 

“It appears,” pursued the Assistant-Commissioner, 



THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 163 

“that acting on an anonymous communication, the local 
police undertook dragging operations in a certain pond, 
with the result that they have discovered a tricycle lashed 
to the body of a man. The man has been identified as 
Stopford, the missing butler. This is, in short, a case of 
murder.” 


Chapter XVIII 


The lunch plus Major Norton’s whisky plus Jill’s 
exhilarating personality sent Michael Chillaton with more 
direction than discretion towards Lord Harnley’s big man¬ 
sion before even twilight had fallen. Only when he was in 
sight of the porch did he halt to take counsel with him¬ 
self, suddenly aware that he had no more definite plan 
than to gain entrance by some surreptitious means, and to 
explore until he found Christine—or her captors. Most 
probably it would be the latter. And then he would look 
a fool. 

Drawing into the shrubbery Michael lit a pipe, pulled 
himself together, and pondered. All sorts of expedients 
presented themselves, to be rejected as fantastic or too 
risky or incapable of performance. He had finished the 
pipe before he decided on the simplest and most obvious 
course. By this time twilight had definitely descended. 

He entered the porch of Takyll Place and banged with 
aggressive violence at the door knocker. Orson, with a 
surprised expression, appeared quickly within the safe¬ 
guard of the door chain. 


164 



THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 165 

“Hullo, sir! You again?” he growled, and instantly 
proceeded to close the doors. Michael frustrated this 
action with the toe of his shoe. 

“Your method of receiving visitors does become monoto¬ 
nous,” he said cheerfully. “Take my compliments, please, 
to Lord Harnley and say I should be glad for a few words 
with him.” 

The man grinned. 

“That’s more than his lordship would be, sir. No thanks. 
I got my orders.” 

“I advise you,” Michael said patiently, “not to waste 
time. Take that message to Lord Harnley, you nauseous 
crook, or you’ll be sorry for yourself.” 

Orson grinned again, less mirthfully. 

“The Hell I will.” 

“The Hell you will,” Michael answered. “And the 
same applies to every other jailbird in this outfit.” 

A savage kick aimed at his leg almost threw Michael 
off his balance. Recovering with the speed of light he 
swung his right and caught the butler fairly on the nose. 
Orson yelped and sat down on the floor. His remarks 
were unsuited to feminine ears, but evidently not to 
Bernice Randall, who now appeared at the foot of the 
stairs, smiling with frank amusement first at Orson and 
then at the visitor. 

“What a good thing the chain hasn’t broken,” she 
observed, coolly. “Have you come to abduct me again, 
Mr. Chillaton? I feel so flattered!” 

Michael raised his hat. 

“It is a pleasure I must regretfully deny myself on 
this occasion. May I come in, however?” 

She shook her head. 

“No, Mr. Chillaton, your ardor really frightens me 
too much.” 

“For a little chat, merely.” 


166 THE CROOKS' SHEPHERD 

Reproachfully, Bernice Randall pointed a highly mani¬ 
cured finger at the blaspheming butler, in the act of 
scrambling to his feet. 

“If this is a specimen of your conversation, Mr. Chil- 
laton, we must beg to be excused.” 

“That was merely a quid pro quo,” Michael explained. 
“No well conducted butler should kick a visitor. I will 
undertake not to hit him again if he behaves himself and 
takes my message.” 

“Your message?” 

“To Lord Harnley.” 

“Oh! But surely Orson explained that Lord Harnley 
does not wish to receive visitors?” 

“It will be in his own interests to receive me,” Michael 
said bluntly, “and yours, too.” 

“Mine?” The brilliant lips parted in a smile to reveal 
beautiful teeth. “How quaint you are!” 

“Let me come in, and I’ll tell you something quainter 
still. It’s a bit chilly standing here.” 

He saw her hesitate. 

“If you do,” rapped out the butler quickly, “you’ll 
bloody well live to regret it!” He made a move towards 
the door, eyeing Michael watchfully. But the visitor kept 
both hands in his pockets. He regarded the butler with 
a level gaze. 

“Jump to it, Bossy Parkwell,” Michael said. 

A roar of fury broke from the man. He swung round to 
face the woman. 

“What did I tell you! Didn’t I say so all along? The 
whole blinking game’s gone to pieces, all because none of 
you ’ad the sense to listen to me. And now, by Christ, 
it’s too late!” 

Bernice Randall stood very still, eyes on Michael, ig¬ 
noring the butler as though his comment was unheard and 
his presence unseen. 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 167 

“And so you have come here to frighten us, Mr. Chil- 
laton?” 

“I have not come to frighten you. I came to see Lord 
Harnley.” 

She shook her head, smiling curiously. 

“That is impossible.” 

“Then, after all, perhaps I must frighten you.” 

“That, also, is impossible,” she said. Michael met her 
smile with his. 

“I believe it is. Let us call it reasonable persuasion.” 

“It does not matter what you call it. Why do you want 
to see Lord Harnley? To frighten him also?” 

“Perhaps. For his own good.” 

She looked puzzled. 

“It is the least—and the most—I can do,” he went on. 

“I see. You want to warn him?” 

“The law will take its course. And he can take his.” 

She nodded, still with that curious smile. 

“I will tell him. But you had another reason for com¬ 
ing, had you not?” 

For just an instant Michael hesitated. The butler was 
staring at him fixedly. 

“Yes: I had another reason; that, also, is for Lord 
Harnley’s ears.” 

She shook her head again. 

“Will not mine do?” 

“No.” 

“Perhaps I could understand, better than Lord Plarn- 
ley,” she said softly. 

“Perhaps. But—most regretfully—I do not trust you.” 

Her eyes glinted at that, but she kept her tones ad¬ 
mirably cool. 

“Still, I am afraid you will have to trust me, because 
Lord Harnley will see no one.” 

“Will not—or cannot?” 




168 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

“Both.” 

“And if I say that he shall see me? Or take certain 
consequences?” 

“It would make no difference.” 

Michael made a gesture and turned aside from the 
doorway. The butler leapt forward. 

“ ’Arf a minute, by God! If you think—” 

“Hold your noise!” Bernice Randall’s voice seemed to 
cut the man’s face like a whip. He checked uncertainly, 
shifting from one foot to the other, scowling. 

“Open the doors!” 

The man obeyed, after the barest hesitation. But 
Michael remained on the step outside. 

“Mr. Chillaton,” Bernice said calmly, “you have said 
that you don’t trust me. But I know why you have come 
here. Not to warn Lord Harnley—a thing you cannot 
do—but for another reason. One that counts more with 
you than twenty Harnleys. You will not admit it, but 
you forget that I am a woman.” 

Still Michael stood outside the doorway. Bernice Ran¬ 
dall smiled, a little bitterly. 

“Perhaps, after all, I was mistaken,” she said. 

Slowly Michael mounted the step, and faced her within 
the doors now. The butler watching him between narrowed 
eyelids made no move. 

“I will make a compact with you,” Michael said. 
“Christine Abbott comes with me, and for twelve hours 
I will not hinder you. Refuse those terms—I offer no 
others—and I will bring the police to this house.” 

“Even with Christine Abbott here?” There was no 
mockery in the woman’s tone. 

“Even with Christine here. Do you agree?” 

“A strange compact, surely. You range yourself with 
us, Mr. Chillaton.” 

“That is my affair.” 


THE CROOKS' SHEPHERD 169 

“Surely. And after the twelve hours?” 

“The police shall be told.” 

“Oh! That, I suppose, is obvious. But you will for¬ 
give our curiosity. What is it you will tell the police?” 

Michael pointed to the butler. 

“That there are escaped convicts hidden in Takyll 
Place,” he said. 

“But not Christine Abbott?” 

“That I shall decide—later. For the moment all I 
insist on is that she shall leave here.” 

“For her own safety—or your satisfaction?” 

Michael compressed his lips. 

“My reasons concern only myself and her, Miss Ran¬ 
dall.” 

“Of course. Very well— I agree. But still I do not 
see what good you will do her. She is surely more in¬ 
debted to us, and I think she will refuse to go with you.” 

Michael hesitated perceptibly. Bernice added quickly: 

“You shall see her for yourself. Come in.” 

The doors closed behind the young man and the chain 
clattered back into place. For an instant Michael was 
conscious of alarm and halted. As if divining his thought 
Bernice Randall shook her head. 

“It is not a trap. I am not so foolish as to suppose that 
you have kept your knowledge to yourself.” 

He smiled. 

“You are right. I left word that unless I return before 
dawn the police will be told.” 

She did not answer, but turned towards the doorway, 
motioning him to follow her. The butler started to follow 
but a glance from the woman checked him, and he hung 
back, scowling uneasily. At the head of the stairs, to 
Michael’s perplexity Bernice Randall turned, not towards 
the corridor that led to the unoccupied wing, but to the 
broad passageway commanding the principal bedrooms, 



170 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

among them the suite occupied by Harnley himself. To 
Michael it proved Harnley’s complicity in this strange 
conspiracy beyond any doubt. Presently Bernice halted 
and took from her pocket a key. Before unlocking the 
door she tapped and Michael heard Christine’s answering 
voice. They entered a large room lit by a single lamp on 
a bedside table. The shutters had been drawn and secured 
by padlocks. A fire glowed in the grate and its glow il¬ 
luminated the figure of the girl who stood in the room’s 
center, as though she had started up at their entrance. It 
was the first time Michael had ever seen Christine clearly, 
and the sight of her strengthened his resolve never to 
rest until he had restored to her her birthright of honor 
and happiness. 

Bernice Randall watched the meeting, still with her 
curious smile. But Christine made no movement, and her 
eyes were sad. 

“Why have you come?” she asked almost under her 
breath. “It is good of you, but you can do nothing. And 
you will only harm yourself.” 

“To take you away,” Michael answered as quietly. 
“Will you come?” 

“Away! Where can you take me? There is only one 
place I can go to!” 

“Listen,” Michael said. “In the morning the police 
will be here. Until then you are safer with me than—” 
he shrugged his shoulders expressively. “At least I choose 
to believe so. I have given these people twelve hours to 
get clear. It does not suit me that you should be—roped 
in with them” 

Bernice raised her eyebrows in amusement. 

“You are so very sure that we shall be roped in, as you 
express it. But perhaps there are surprises in store for 
you—and some others.” 



THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 171 

Michael made no answer, but continued to look at 
Christine. 

“You will come?” 

The girl shook her head. 

“No.” 

“Then I must stay,” he said with finality. 

“Please, no! I am past helping.” She shook her head 
vehemently. “I came into this like a fool. It was mad¬ 
ness to suppose that any good could come of it. The least 
I can do is to go back without harming my only friend. 
Please, Michael—” 

She broke off and looked at him in appeal. There had 
been a tenseness in her voice that he was quick to detect, 
the tension of overwrought nerves. He saw that unless 
he could relieve that tension she would break down. 

“Powers above!” Michael ejaculated, smiling. “Did 
you really think I was proposing to conceal you from the 
forces of law and order, with a perfectly good reward to be 
had for the asking? Never was a bigger mistake made, my 
dear. Tomorrow I lead you into the arms of Sergeant 
Bassett. To-night, at the risk of outraging the conven¬ 
tions, we stay together.” 

He turned to Bernice and spoke with a new incisiveness. 

“Miss Randall, may I remind you that half an hour of 
the respite allotted to you has already expired. Tell your 
friends to make the most of their opportunity. And tell 
them to count themselves lucky.” 

The woman nodded, then she turned to Christine, un¬ 
smiling now. 

“I think,” she said, “that Christine Abbott is luckier 
still, to have found such a champion.” 

She moved to the door. An impulse sent Michael for¬ 
ward as she reached it. From the outside he extracted 
the key. 


172 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

“Forgive me for this base suspicion, Miss Randall, but 
I prefer not to be locked in. 5 ’ 

“I understand.” The smile returned momentarily to 
those brilliant lips. “I am trusting you, Mr. Chillaton, not 
to hinder us.” 

When the door closed, Michael locked it. Then he took 
Christine by the shoulders in a firm grasp that steadied her 
trembling. 

“You wonder why I do this,” he said very gently. “It 
is no time for fencing and I am going to tell you. Ever 
since I met your eyes in the dark, a fugitive from justice 
as I thought you, Christine, I have loved you. I know 
now that these charges against you are fantastic and im¬ 
possible, but even if you had committed crimes a thousand 
times worse it would make no difference. And even if 
you must go back to prison, it will make no difference, for 
I shall wait for you and then ask you if you can care 
enough to marry me—” 

His grip on her shoulders tightened. 

“Christine, what will you say to me then?” 

She looked up at him with swimming eyes. 

“That I care too much. Far, far too much.” 

Michael smiled, content with that, oblivious to all else 
but the certainty of her in his arms. 

They did not hear the bracket clock in the hall below 
strike four, but a moment later the sound of a single shot 
crashed the silence of Takyll Place. 


Chapter XIX 


Major Norton found his daughter in a suppressed ex¬ 
citement for which she evaded all explanation. Tired at the 
close of an arduous day, Major Norton was in no mood 
to probe the cause of Jill’s unwonted restlessness. After 
dinner he settled himself in his arm-chair with a pipe and 
Horse and Hound. Jill, however, continued to fidget. 
By 11 p.m., she had smoked double her ration of cigarettes 
and was in a fair way to develop hysteria. Major Norton 
removed his pipe, and laid down Horse and Hound. 

“What the deuce,” he inquired, “is the matter with 
you?” 

Jill threw away her cigarette. 

“Nothing,” she said nervously. 

“Then why the deuce can’t you keep still?” 

The clock struck as he spoke and the sound seemed to 
shatter the remnants of his daughter’s restraint. 

“Golly!” she exclaimed, “I can’t hold it any longer! 
You’ll have to be told, anyway. Daddy, it’s about 
Christine Abbott.” 

“What about Christine Abbott? Has she been found?” 

“No— Yes; that is the police haven’t found her, but 
she’s there!” 


173 


174 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

“Where?” 

“At Takyll Place.” 

The pipe slid from Major Norton’s hand to the floor. 
He snatched it up, frowning irritably. 

“I don’t know what’s the matter with you, Jill, talking 
all this nonsense. Who did you say was at Takyll Place?” 

“Christine Abbott!” said Jill with savage emphasis. 

“That is ridiculous. How can Christine Abbott be at 
Takyll Place? It’s absurd!” 

Jill lit another cigarette. 

“I wish,” observed her father, “that you wouldn’t 
smoke so much.” 

“Please, darling,” said Jill, “don’t be boneheaded. I 
simply can’t stand it to-night. Now listen. Takyll Place 
is just about the last corner of the earth the police would 
think of searching for Christine, isn’t it? Well, that’s why 
they haven’t found her. But she’s there—unless Michael 
Chillaton is a liar.” 

“Michael Chillaton, eh?” answered her father, in the 
tone of one who has manifestly not noted a patent fact. 
“What has young Chillaton to do with it?” 

“He found her there, that’s all.” 

“Found her there? How?” 

“Darling, what does that matter? I’m trying to tell 
you that Christine is hiding at old Harnley’s and Michael’s 
gone to get her out before we set the police going. Be¬ 
cause Michael and I have come to the conclusion that 
those new servants are the escaped convicts. Now do 
you see?” 

“No, I don’t” snapped Major Norton in a decisive voice. 
“Except that you and Michael appear to have been play¬ 
ing an extremely dangerous game. If this crazy yarn is 
true, then your proper duty was to inform the police 
without wasting a single instant. The best thing you can 
do now is to tell me the whole story from the beginning.” 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 175 

His manifest alarm, not at the implication of any 
danger to Michael, but at the threat to legal correctitude 
generally, had the effect of restoring Jill’s habitual, af¬ 
fectionate disrespect. 

“Darling, don’t be magisterial. Michael only told me 
this afternoon, and you wouldn’t expect me to rush along 
and hand Christine over to that little pipsqueak of a 
detective, would you?” 

“Little pipsqueak?” echoed Major Norton weakly. 

“The Boy Scout, darling. His name is Paunceforte, and 
he comes from Scotland Yard.” 

Major Norton’s jaw dropped. 

“A detective. That!” 

Jill nodded. 

“Good God!” exploded her father. 

Having reduced her parent to tractability, Jill pro¬ 
ceeded to give him a detailed account of her theories and 
her misdemeanors, including her visit to the forbidden 
territory with Barrister and Wardress. Even this enor¬ 
mity failed to outrage Major Norton’s sense of propriety 
in the light of the vaster implications of Jill’s recital. At 
its conclusion Jill waited for reactions. Major Norton 
drew a profound breath. 

“Extraordinary,” he said with consternation. “Most 
extraordinary. Of course there’s only one thing to be 
done.” 

He glanced up at the clock as he spoke. Jill’s lips com¬ 
pressed. 

“No, darling,” she said firmly. “Not yet.” 

“But, good Heavens! Every minute makes the situa¬ 
tion worse. Don’t you see! By concealing this—this 
knowledge—we make ourselves accessory.” 

“No, darling,” repeated Jill more firmly. “I promised 
Michael not to stir until morning. If he does the job 
properly he’ll be here in a little while—with Chris Abbott.” 


s 


176 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

Major Norton’s eyes bulged. 

“With the Abbott girl! Here! It would ruin me!” 

“On the contrary, it will give your untarnished reputa¬ 
tion an extra polish. Darling, you are being dense. You 
will figure as the magistrate who handed her over to the 
police, after she’s given herself up to you. Remember 
that Christine didn’t escape like the others; she was ab¬ 
ducted from prison. But if she’s caught with the others 
it will be far worse for her. That’s one reason why 
Michael’s gone to get her out of Harnley’s clutches. It’ll 
prove that from first to last she hasn’t been a free agent.” 

Major Norton agreed unwillingly. 

“Um. And the other reason?” 

“The other reason is that both Michael and I are con¬ 
vinced that somewhere in Takyll Place we’re going to 
find the proof of Christine’s innocence,” Jill said de¬ 
liberately. 

“Innocence! My good girl, she was tried and convicted 
after incontestable proof of guilt.” Major Norton got 
to his feet and began to stride the room. “No, Jill, I 
don’t like this. It was a bad case, and whatever the 
rights of this escape business, we’ve no earthly justifica¬ 
tion for withholding important information from the po¬ 
lice. Sergeant Bassett must be told without the waste 
of another second. Besides, it doesn’t seem to occur to 
you that young Michael might be in danger, apart from 
anything else.” 

Jill shook her head. 

“Michael can take care of himself. They’ll know what’s 
coming to them if he gets hurt.” 

“It strikes me,” retorted the Major grimly, “that he 
will get hurt, whatever may be coming to them.” He 
looked at the clock again. “It’ll be past midnight before 
we can wake things up. But, by God! we’ve got to begin!” 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 177 

Jill was silent. Her father’s uneasiness had affected 
her though she declined to admit it, even to herself. If 
Michael came to harm she would be culpable. On the other 
hand Michael might be awkwardly placed if his arrange¬ 
ments were upset by untimely police intervention. Jill 
comforted herself with the reflection that it would be long 
past midnight before the local forces of law could be 
assembled, and thus some compromise might be effected 
in Michael’s time-table. Sergeant Bassett would have to 
send for extra men from Barnborough. 

She heard her father rattling the telephone receiver in 
the hall outside. Presently he shouted a demand to be 
connected to the police station in a voice sharpened by 
annoyance at the operator’s apparent somnolence. Seem¬ 
ingly interminable delay followed and then she heard her 
father’s voice again. 

“What’s that? No reply? Nonsense, nonsense! Try 
again.” 

Another lengthy delay. Jill bit her lips and smiled. 

It didn’t matter. But presently she frowned. 

“Line out of order! Rubbish! They’re all asleep! 
Wake ’em up!” Major Norton’s accents were thickening 
now with rising anger. “I said, wake ’em up!” 

Jill looking through the open door, met her father’s 
resentful gaze. 

“It’s absolutely disgraceful the way Bassett sleeps,” he 
growled. “Or else he’s dead drunk. If he doesn’t come 
to the ’phone within two minutes I shall report him at 
Barnborough. Hullo! hullo!” 

Presently the operator’s voice came through again, a 
bit flustered, but certainly wide awake. 

“I am sorry, sir, there’s no reply. Something’s out of 
order. Line’s quite dead, sir. The wire may be down, 
sir.” 


178 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

“Wire down! Ridiculous! How can the wire be down/’ 
demanded Major Norton testily. “Upon my soul, I shall 
report this disgraceful inefficiency.” 

“Perhaps,” Jill intervened quietly, “the wire has been 
cut.” 

Her father’s eyes protruded. 

“Eh? Cut? Good God!” 

“And I think,” pursued Jill evenly, “that you had 
better ring up the Boy Scout. If that line’s cut too, we’d 
better get out the car and see about things. It looks as 
if those people have been busy.” 

Controlling himself, in unwilling admiration of his 
daughter’s self-possession, he bawled into the receiver: 
“Operator, get me the Takyll Arms and be quick about 
it.” 

Another delay, shorter this time, and then the voice of 
old Sam Believer: 

“Ask for Mr. Simpkins,” Jill intervened swiftly. 

“That you, Believer?” Major Norton barked. “Ask 
Mr. Simpkins to come to the ’phone, will you?” 

“Mr. Simpkins isn’t in, sir.” 

“Not in—at this hour! ” 

“No, sir.” 

“Then, damn it, where is he?” 

“Couldn’t say, sir.” 

“Curse it—somebody must know.” 

“No, sir. Nobody knows where Mr. Simpkins is. He 
went out before closing time and left no word. If he 
comes back now he’s going to find the door locked.” 

Believer’s reaction to Mr. Simpkins’ behavior was re¬ 
vealed with unmistakable clarity. Major Norton fumed. 

“Don’t be a fool, Believer! When Mr. Simpkins comes 
back you’ll tell him there’s trouble up at Takyll Place 
that requires his attention immediately. He’ll understand 
what that means, unless he’s as big a jackass as he looks. 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 179 

And listen, Believer, I want to know how much Sergeant 
Bassett had to drink to-night.’’ 

“The Sergeant, sir? Nothing to mention. He was in 
for a half-pint at six o’clock, that’s all.” 

“Ha! Not drunk, you say?” 

“Good Gawd, no, sir!” The reply came in thunder¬ 
struck accents. “The Sergeant drunk!” 

“Then, dammit, he must be dead!” snapped Major 
Norton fiercely replacing the receiver. He turned on his 
daughter. 

“Get the car out, Jill. I’m going up to get my revolver.” 

Jill’s eyes gleamed happily. 

“And if you think you’re coming, you’ll be nicely 
mistaken. Go on, don’t waste time!” The Major stumped 
noisily up the stairs. When he returned, with an enormous 
bulge in his coat pocket, he saw Jill firmly at the wheel 
of the Buick. He started to speak, gulped, and decided 
not to waste time. The car lurched down the drive. 

They reached the village in a few minutes. In the 
darkened High Street Jill pulled up, and simultaneously 
a bulky figure clattered down the police station steps. 
It was Sergeant Bassett, his uniform awry. 

“I was just coming out to see you, sir,” the Sergeant 
panted. “There’s been something very funny happening 
to-night.” 

Major Norton heaved himself out of the car. 

“I wish,” he grumbled, “I had your sense of humor. 
Why the devil don’t you answer the telephone!” 

“That’s just it, sir. The wires’ve been cut. Every 
main wire out of the village, sir. Gor, I’d like to catch 
the practical joker who’s been amusing himself to¬ 
night!” 

“Good God! Are you suggesting that this is the work 
of a practical joker!” 

“Not exactly, sir. Just my manner of speaking,” said 


180 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

the Sergeant woodenly. “Things have been moving since 
you went to Petty Sessions this morning. It’s going to be 
a matter for Scotland Yard, now, sir.” 

The Major stared. 

“What’s going to be a matter for Scotland Yard? Not 
that it isn’t about time somebody started to do something 
intelligent in this confounded place. And so you’ve dis¬ 
covered the escaped convicts at last, have you?” 

It was Sergeant Bassett’s turn to stare. 

“Escaped?” 

“That’s what I said,” snapped Major Norton. “What 
the deuce are you calling in Scotland Yard for, if it isn’t 
that? Though why the deuce you want to send to London 
for a regular job like arresting these fugitive criminals 
I’m blest if I know. Who applied to Scotland Yard, any¬ 
how? Answer, can’t you!” 

Sergeant Bassett gave a hitch at his belt and straightened 
his tunic. The conversational pace was a bit too rapid 
for his liking and he wanted time to formulate his re¬ 
plies. 

“It was the Chief-Constable, sir. As a result of certain 
information I laid before ’im, ’e decided to apply for 
assistance to the Criminal Investigation Department.” 
Giving another hitch to his belt, he added with smug satis¬ 
faction, “Murder, sir, that’s what it is!” 

Jill registered excitement but Major Norton looked 
grim. 

“I am not surprised,” he growled. “There will be some 
more unless you look alive. Who was it?” 

“As a result, sir, of certain information—” 

“You can cut all that, until the inquest,” interrupted 
the Major testily. <( Who was it?” 

“Stopford, sir.” Sergeant Bassett looked offended. 
“In the tarn—” 

Major Norton whistled. Jill’s eyes were dancing. 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 181 

“I knew there was something sinister—” she began, 
when her father cut her short. 

“How many men can you get hold of, Bassett?” 

The Sergeant stared uncomprehendingly. 

“Men, sir? There’s only Muddiford and myself in the 
village. Of course we could get some more men from 
Barnborough, but with the wires down it’ll take a little 
time.” 

“Quite so, Sergeant Bassett. And that’s why the wires 
are down. Your job now is to send a messenger over to 
the Barnborough police with instructions to ’phone all 
stations to keep a look-out for the escaped convicts who 
have been hiding at Takyll Place. After that you’ll collect 
half a dozen fellows in the village who are good for a 
scrap and come with me. And if you waste time asking 
fool questions now, I’ll have your confounded stripes 
taken away.” 


Chapter XX 


Beneath the high porch of Takyll Place a car, blue 
and chromium, with the lines of a bullet, was parked. 
There was a woman at the wheel, but she sat alone. Within 
the hall two men faced each other. One was muffled to the 
nose and his hat shaded his eyes. The other was Bossy 
Parkwell, alias Orson. In Bossy’s hand was something 
no criminal likes to have on him when the police arrive. 

“Too much of a ’urry, that’s what you’re in, mister,” 
squeaked Bossy. “The rest of ’em’s gone without troublin’ 
to say good-bye, but I ain’t that sort. See?” 

The man in the muffler drew in his breath before he 
answered, quietly: 

“What do you want?” 

“I’ll tell you what I want, and what I’m—well goin’ to 
get. Keep yer ’ands out of yer pockets, damn you!” 

The other made no movement. 

“Well?” 

“Take yer ’at off,” said Bossy curtly. 

“Why?” 

“Because I, well because I say so. And take off that 
there muffler, too. See?” 


182 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 183 

“Yes, I see.” 

“I thought you would,” grinned Bossy. But the man 
before him still made no movement. 

Bossy raised the pistol until its muzzle pointed at the 
gleam of white features between hat and muffler. 

“The other mugs in this graft,” he said, “are too 
obedient, that’s what’s the matter with them. Every time 
you lift yer little finger they jump to it. It don’t seem to 
occur to them that they might do a bit better for their- 
selves than a dirty little ten per cent among the lot. I 
wasn’t brought up to live like a retired bank clerk, I 
wasn’t. My father would ’ave sent me to Oxford and 
Cambridge if ’e ’adn’t lorst all his money bettin’ with the 
Prince of Wales. Ten per cent? Why, I wouldn’t demean 
myself by touchin’ it!” Bossy’s forefinger curled round 
the trigger of his pistol. “It’s goin’ to be fifty per cent 
for me, mister. And why? Because I’m goin’ to be the 
only man who’ll know you again when ’e sees you. Take 
orf that ’at!” 

There was a moment’s hesitation, barely a moment, 
and then a black gloved hand was raised. Bossy stared 
at the head thus revealed, at the curiously screwed-up eyes 
that seemed to find sight difficult, with an interest that 
quickened presently to something sharper. 

“We’re goin’ back to finish our stretches,” he squeaked. 
“And when we come out there’s to be a packet for each of 
us. And the biggest packet’s goin’ to be mine. Take orf 
that choker!” 

Again the black gloved hand went up. The silken scarf 
came away, and Bossy stepped back a pace. His jaw 
dropped. 

“Gawd! Gawd! You!” 

The figure before him suddenly sagged and fell in a 
heap at his feet. Bossy’s amazement switched in a flash 
to alarm. He had gained this staggering, almost in- 


184 THE CROOKS' SHEPHERD 

credible knowledge. Was he to surrender it into the hands 
of death? Dropping to his knees he placed one hand 
over his victim’s heart, and was relieved to feel its beat. 
Not death, at least. Shamming, perhaps? He held 
his gun at the ready and cautiously loosened the uncon¬ 
scious man’s collar. He wasn’t going to be gulled by any 
old trick. 

The gasping voice was little more than a strained 
whisper. Bossy bent over. 

a Water!” 

“All right.” Bossy stood up. “But if you think you 
can guy me you’ll be nicely mistook.” With a deft action 
of his spare hand Bossy sought and extracted an automatic 
pistol. 

“Now you won’t shoot me in the back, see? And if you 
beat it while I’m getting you that drink it won’t make any 
difference to me. Because I know you now. And I shan’t 
forget.” 

Bossy chuckled as he turned and made his way to the 
rear of the hall. At the kitchen door he glanced back. The 
figure on the floor lay very still. Nevertheless Bossy kept 
both pistols ready as he proceeded through the deserted 
kitchen to the scullery beyond, glancing about him un¬ 
easily. Those ill-lit places with their cavernous shadows 
were enough to give anyone the horrors. A single electric 
lamp was burning in the big scullery, but its illumination 
was feeble at best. An open doorway beyond led to an 
unused still-room. Bossy stood on the metal grid below 
the sink and stared into the opening, wondering suddenly 
why the door was open. No one ever used the still-room. 

As he stood, he fancied he heard a movement within 
that square of darkness. And the sound of breathing. All 
nerves, of course. Funny how that amorphous shape looked 
like fur. Gawd, what a bloody fool he was! From a 
shelf he took down a tumbler, and pocketing one of the 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 185 

pistols reached out to the cold water tap over the sink. 

And at that moment, Bossy Parkwell died. 

The sound of the shot that echoed along the deserted 
corridors died away into a stillness so profound that 
Michael could hear Christine’s breathing. He stood now 
in the open doorway listening. But nothing further broke 
the stillness. No answering shot. No scuffling of foot¬ 
steps. Motioning her to remain still and to await his re¬ 
turn, he started along the corridor. But her agonized whis¬ 
per brought him to a standstill. 

“Michael, don’t go!” 

“Dear, I must. To see if the way is clear. We must 
get out of this!” 

“You are not armed!” 

“All the less likely to be shot at. I won’t be provocative, 
I assure you. If I can help it I won’t even be seen. But 
we’ve got to know who’s there. Better lock your door. 
When I come back in a few minutes, I’ll give three raps. 
Don’t open to anyone else.” 

He closed the door despite her tremulous protest, and 
ran lightly along the corridor, pausing at the head of the 
stairs to listen. The electrolier in the hall shot its rays 
into his eyes. The big double doors below were unchained 
and unbolted. He ran down a dozen steps, far enough 
to lean over the carved baluster rail and gain an angle 
that commanded the doors of the principal rooms. Each 
door was shut and not a sound came from any of them. 
Michael descended the remaining steps and went to the 
double doors. He opened them and peered out into the 
darkness. The silence outside was as complete as within. 
He had turned to reascend the stairs when a gleam of light 
through the partly open service door caught his eyes, and 
he tip-toed towards it. 

Hearing nothing he thrust it open and saw that the 


186 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

light came obliquely from the kitchen doorway. Afraid 
that someone lurked there he went forward, step by step, 
until he could peer within the room. The kitchen was 
empty, but in the scullery beyond a man’s boot jutted at an 
odd angle. Michael dropped all caution and ran forward. 
Orson, alias Bossy Parkwell, was lying, face down, with 
wide-open eyes and parted lips that seemed as though they 
had been about to speak. Michael turned him over. He 
could see no wound, no blood, yet the man was dead. By 
his side was a smashed tumbler. A sense of danger came 
to Michael, and fear of a kind he had not known before. 
This silence, this death, had stricken down the crook and 
left no trace. He must get Christine away. At all costs 
he must get her out of this. 

Beyond the scullery he saw another open door, and the 
glitter of stars through a window beyond. Something im¬ 
pelled him towards that door, to shut and bolt it against 
the return of intruders, though he told himself that the 
great house was now forsaken by those who had lately 
outraged its peace. Still, he must shut that door. 

It was very dark. As he felt for his torch, his foot 
caught against something heavy and inert so that he almost 
fell. Recovering himself, he flashed the torch downwards. 
The body of another man lay there, face upturned, eyes 
glazed. There was no blood upon him save a small, half- 
healed scratch upon his cheek. It was the face of a 
stranger, a dark-haired man of middle age, well built, with 
aquiline features and shapely hands. Something oddly 
familiar about the features. 

Mechanically, Michael turned back. In the scullery 
he paused again to look at the dead butler. There was a red 
mark on the palm of the upturned hand. A curious mark! 

The sound of an approaching car came to ears sharpened 
by anxiety and the nervous tension of the wait for 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 187 

Michael’s return. The hum grew louder until it ceased, 
almost beneath the window of Christine’s room. Switching 
off the light, she ran to the padlocked shutters and pressed 
them apart the fraction of an inch to peer out. In the glare 
of the car’s headlights she saw dark figures alight and 
cluster together as though in whispered discussion. The 
figure of a girl remained at the wheel of the car. Presently 
the little group—there were six men altogether—deployed 
on either side of the porch while the central figure ap¬ 
proached the entrance. Except for the car’s driver, they 
were now out of the angle of Christine’s vision and she 
turned back into the room, switching on the table lamp 
again. If only Michael would come. 

The tension drove her to pace the room; her temples 
began to throb. She heard the sound of knocking down¬ 
stairs, of someone imperiously demanding admission. 
Voices murmured. Footsteps echoed on the stone slabs 
of the terrace. Footsteps in the hall below. Footsteps along 
the passageways. 

Her head was bursting, her mouth was dry and ached 
with the thirst that fear brings. Christine walked into 
tlie bathroom and took down a glass from the shelf above 
the wash-basin. She was on the point of filling the glass 
from the cold water tap when a strange instinct made 
her pause. She frowned, staring at the glass in her 
hand. As she again reached out for the tap, three quiet 
raps came at the bedroom door. 

Replacing the glass Christine sped to the door and un¬ 
locked it. Michael stood there, his face as white as chalk. 

“Thank God,” he breathed, “you are all right. I was 
afraid I might be too late.” He glanced into the lighted 
bathroom and his lips compressed grimly. 

“There is death there/’ he said. “It means death to 
touch those taps. I must warn the others, but first I came 
to you.” 



188 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

Christine nodded, only half comprehending. 

“It is the police?” 

“Yes. I am going to get you away before they find 
you. Afterwards, we will see. Come.” He took her arm 
and drew her out of the room. Down the corridor he en¬ 
tered another room whose shutters were unfastened, and 
in darkness groped towards the window. Stealthily he 
thrust out the casement and looked down. Below them 
the Buick rested, and at its wheel sat Jill Norton. 
Michael’s whisper was just enough to reach her, and 
Jill’s answer no more than a sign that the way was clear. 
A few urgent, whispered instructions, and Christine 
climbed out of the window to descend by the ancient ivy. 

Michael waited only until the car had shot forward 
down the drive before he turned and sped towards the 
voices in the hall below. 


Chapter XXI 


Major Norton’s greeting was grim. 

“In due course,” he said, “we shall require an explana¬ 
tion for your presence in this house. At the moment we 
are concerned with four escaped convicts who are be¬ 
lieved to be in hiding here. If you have any information 
about those convicts it is your duty to give it.” 

The group stood beneath the hall electrolier. In Norton’s 
hand was a clumsy, old-fashioned Service revolver. On 
the Major’s right stood Sergeant Bassett, on his left a 
nondescript person who might have been anything from a 
bellringer to a solicitor’s clerk. 

“I am ready to give you any help I can,” Michael said. 
“As for my presence here, it seems to have escaped your 
memory that Lord Harnley is my uncle.” He added with 
a faint grin, “Fortunately for your safety there appear to 
be no convicts to arrest.” 

Major Norton scowled. 

“Are you suggesting that we are lacking the courage 
.to tackle these miscreants, young man?” 

“Oh, no, sir, only it’d take a complete division to 
surround this house—and forgive me—you seem a little 

189 


190 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

short-handed. Very intrepid, if you don’t mind my say¬ 
ing so.” 

Sergeant Bassett nodded solemnly. 

“You may well say that, Mr. Chillaton. But duty’s duty, 
even if the telephone wires ’ave been cut.” 

Michael whistled in surprise. 

“Good staff work, by Jove! And not the only detail 
that’s been attended to, believe me. If you’ll come this 
way I’ll show you some more. Only for the love of Mike 
don’t touch the water taps!” 

Turning he led the puzzled little group through the 
service doorway, through the kitchen, to where the dead 
butler lay. 

“Who the devil,” demanded Major Norton, “is this?” 

“His appearance,” Michael answered, “tallies with the 
published description of one Bossy Parkwell, late of 
Pontonville. Known here, however, as Orson, my uncle’s 
butler. His butlering days are apparently over.” 

“Dead, eh?” 

“Definitely dead, sir. And now will you please step 
this way? I have another exhibit for you.” 

The Major gasped. Sergeant Bassett cleared his throat 
uneasily, while the nondescript follower hung back, his 
eyes glassy. By the second body they halted again. 

“This,” observed Michael, “appears to be another 
of our escaped convicts, namely, Clifford Neyland, some¬ 
time of the drama, but more lately of Dartmoor. What 
his precise function in this establishment was I am un¬ 
able to tell you, but he also seems to have finished with 
it.” 

“Good God!” choked Major Norton. “Both dead! 
How did—all this—happen?” 

“The answer, sir, is a water tap.” 

“A water tap?” 

“Apparently several water taps, sir.” 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 191 

Major Norton only partially comprehended. Sergeant 
Bassett stared, with no comprehension at all. 

“What the devil,” snapped Major Norton, “do you 
mean?” 

“I mean, sir, that these men have been electrocuted.” 

“Good God!” ejaculated Major Norton. “You’ll ex¬ 
cuse me, Mr. Chillaton, but I don’t quite follow.” 

“It appears,” Michael explained, “that a wire from the 
light main has been connected with this metal grid on the 
floor. By standing on it and touching the tap a complete 
circuit is made. Very simple. And very effective, as 
you’ll discover if you turn on a tap. Or, if so valuable 
a member of the Force cannot be spared, perhaps this 
gentleman here will oblige with a demonstration?” 

The nondescript person fell back, open mouthed. 

“Gor!” he said, and thereafter held his peace. 

“Are there,” demanded Major Norton in a husky voice, 
“any more?” 

“That, sir, is what I suggest we now discover.” 

“There’s another man that’s wanted,” put in the Ser¬ 
geant. “There’s Minser. And there’s the woman, Abbott.” 

Major Norton shot a suspicious glance at Michael. 

“Is Christine Abbott in this house?” he demanded. 

“That,” Michael repeated smoothly, “is what I suggest 
we now discover. As I am well acquainted with the 
geography of this house, if you will permit me to act as 
your guide we can search the whole place within an hour. 
In my opinion, however, we shall find nothing more.” 

Major Norton set his jaw grimly. 

“That is my opinion, too. Lead on!” 

The Sergeant had been busy with his notebook. Re¬ 
placing it in his pocket he nodded agreement. 

“We’ll come back to these,” he observed. “And by the 
time we’ve searched the place perhaps the Barnborough 
chaps’ll be here. 


192 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

Switching on his torch Michael strode beyond the 
sculleries. There were odd rooms branching off, unused 
places that had not been wired for electricity. They ex¬ 
plored each of them without result. Systematically, the 
salon, library, dining room, study, billiard room and un¬ 
used, musty-smelling boudoirs were entered. Only silence 
and an emptiness in each. They were on the point of 
mounting the stairs when the nondescript person gave 
a little yelp. 

“Gor!” he said uneasily. “What wor’ that?” 

Sergeant Bassett stared at him woodenly. 

“What wor’ what?” he demanded. 

“’Ark! There it is again!” 

Michael frowned. 

“You’re right! There is something. Listen!” 

They heard a faint moan, a moan that came from no¬ 
where in particular, yet was near at hand. The group 
held its breath as one man. Presently the moan was re¬ 
peated. Michael swung down the stairs, making for the 
door of the cupboard beneath it. The trio above, lean¬ 
ing over the baluster rail, were astounded to see him drag 
out a pair of thin, stockinged legs that culminated in a 
pair of much crumpled khaki shorts. Next, a pale, be¬ 
spectacled face came into view. 

“Good ’Eavens!” gasped Sergeant Bassett, “if it isn’t 
the ’iker!” 

“Gor!” supplemented the nondescript person, “Mr. 
Simpkins! ” 

“In other words,” Major Norton added with bitter con¬ 
tempt, “the Scotland Yard detective!” 

Michael prodded the inert form with the toe of an 
unsympathetic boot. 

“Awake, Mr. Paunceforte! ” 

Another groan followed and Michael bent over him, 
sniffing curiously. 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 193 

“Not electrocuted,” he observed, “although he certainly 
deserves to be. By jove, he’s been doped! Chloroform! 
This is going to take a lot of living down, this is. Poor 
devil! Get some cold water, some one.” 

No one responded, and Michael looked up, puzzled. 

“Oh, yes! I’d forgotten! Well, lend a hand and we’ll 
get him on to that settee.” 

Sergeant Bassett lifted Mr. Paunceforte with ease 
and dropped him on the hard wooden settee against the 
wall. Mr. Paunceforte opened his eyes, blinked with pain, 
and was thereupon distressingly sick. On the conclusion 
of this performance Michael sat him up. 

“Now,” he admonished, “tell the gentlemen how you 
came to leave home. Don’t be nervous. You’re quite safe 
now.” 

The youth glared dizzily, adjusted his spectacles, and 
made an effort to stand up. Failing in this he sank back on 
the settee. 

“Well,” he demanded, “have you g-got them?” 

Sergeant Bassett stared back with hostility. 

“No, we ain’t. And nor, seemingly, ’ave you.” 

The youth clicked his ill-fitting teeth. 

“You have p-permitted them to escape,” he persisted, 
grasping the situation. “The c-convicts have escaped. 
It is a d-disgraceful d-d-dereliction of d-d-duty.” 

Major Norton controlled himself. 

“May we ask,” he inquired, “what you were doing in 
that cupboard? Don’t answer if you’d rather not.” 

“In which case we will assoom,” added Sergeant Bassett 
pleasurably, “that the escaped convicts put you there. 
Did you come ’ere to arrest ’em, or what?” 

Mr. Paunceforte was visibly regaining control of his 
faculties. He made another effort to stand, this time with 
some measure of success. Swaying slightly, one hand 
extended to the wall opposite, he addressed the group 


194 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

with a clarity that was in the circumstances creditable. 

“No one but a f-fool,” Mr. Paunceforte began icily, 
“would suppose I came here single-handed to c-catch 
c-convicts. My p-purpose was to p-pursue my investiga¬ 
tions. I m-made a d-d-discovery of the utmost importance. 
Nothing less than a c-colossal c-c-conspiracy involving the 
sum of t-two hundred thousand p-p-p-pounds.” 

Mr. Paunceforte paused as though expecting applause, 
but beyond a muttered “Gor’,” he received none. Michael, 
in fact, was regarding him with something like pity, while 
Major Norton conveyed a less gentle emotion. 

“T-two hundred thousand p-p-pounds,” Mr. Paunce¬ 
forte repeated, clicking his teeth again. “A colossal fraud 
which appears to have succeeded in its p-purpose.” 

“All right,” Michael interposed indulgently. “It’ll 
keep. For the moment we’re rather busy looking for 
escaped convicts. We found two, but they’re not exactly 
in a returnable condition. I supose you can’t give us a 
clue?” 

The youth’s eyes flickered behind their thick lenses. 
His jaw dropped slightly. 

“You found t-two c-convicts? Here!” 

“Yes, but don’t be nervous. The undertaker will deal 
with them. It’s Minser we’re after now. Did your in¬ 
vestigations tell you anything about Minser?” 

Mr. Paunceforte shook his head with annoyance. It was 
plain that he considered too little respect was being paid to 
his account of the colossal conspiracy. 

“Then I suggest,” Michael said, “that we complete 
our search for the missing Minser. After that we shall 
be charmed to hear your little story.” 

He dropped a wink to Sergeant Bassett which that 
worthy solemnly returned. They formed in procession 
again and mounted the stairs, Mr. Paunceforte bringing 
up the rear, clinging grimly to the stair rail. Bedroom 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 195 

after bedroom Michael entered, until they came to the one 
so recently occupied by Christine Abbott. At the sight 
of the padlocked shutters Major Norton grunted. 

“Somebody’s been kept under lock and key, eh? Very 
curious, this.” 

He darted a keen look at Michael but the young man’s 
expression remained blank. The next room was heavy 
with fragrance. Half opened drawers and abandoned bits 
of exotic lingerie betokened the hasty departure of its 
late occupant. 

“Miss Randall’s room, I imagine,” Michael murmured. 
“The new secretary, you know.” 

“Secretary? Ha!” snorted Major Norton cynically. 

The party moved on. The search continued until every 
apartment in the occupied wing had been examined; it 
was extended in the opposite direction. The third room 
brought them to a sudden stop. 

Michael, as usual, led the way, flashing his torch, for 
there was no electric light. Suddenly Michael uttered an 
exclamation that sent his companions rushing past him 
through the doorway, then to hang back with the primal 
instinct that death inspires. 

The room was bare, unfurnished, its bleakness lend¬ 
ing a dreadful significance to the sole object it contained. 
This was the body of a man whose blood stained the un¬ 
carpeted boards. In the outflung hand a revolver was 
grasped. The grinning face turned towards the doorway 
was that of Edward, Baron Harnley. 


Chapter XXII 


Jill was outside in the Buick, as though she had never 
deserted her position. With her were two cold and 
resentful irregular levies who, wearying of their tasks of 
guarding exits, had drifted back to the main entrance. 
They occupied themselves in acquainting Miss Norton 
with their sentiments regarding the Sergeant for sum¬ 
moning them from their beds in the King’s Name to aid 
in the apprehension of nefarious persons who seemingly 
didn’t exist. They were joined presently by the third 
man who had observed the reassembling of the party with 
manifest relief. 

“Gives me the creeps, it do.” this individual whispered, 
“ ’anging about with nothin’ but trees and shadders and 
—and sperrits fer company.” He shivered while his com¬ 
panions guffawed. Jill regarded him with interest. 

“Did you see any spirits, Joe?” 

“I saw some think, miss,” answered Joe with conviction, 
“and not escaped convicts, neither. Somethink not ’uman, 
it wor’. Well, what’d you expect in a ’aunted place at 
this hour o’ night?” He appealed solemnly to Sergeant 
Bassett who grunted skeptically. 

196 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 197 

“If you saw anything,” he said, “it was your plain duty 
to arrest it or give the alarm. But we don’t want to waste 
no time chasing your hallucinations, and that’s a fact.” 

“What the devil,” snorted Major Norton irritably, “did 
you see?” 

“Twasn’t so much what I see , sir, as what I felt ” 
answered the man carefully. “I wouldn’t go so far as to 
say I saw any think—not what you might call substantial, 
that is. But there was a shadder, sir, in them bushes over 
there. Like a animal, with fur.” He stopped, awed by his 
own recital. “It’d vanished before I got near it. Nawthin’ 
there at all. Just a shadder. There’s some,” he continued, 
lowering his voice, “as sees these things.” 

“Bosh! ” snapped Major Norton crossly. “If that’s your 
idea of keeping watch—goggling at things that aren’t 
there, then all I can say is—hullo!” 

He paused as the sound of approaching cars came up 
the drive. It proved to be three police cars from Barn- 
borough, the occupants of which proceeded to surround 
the house while their Inspector engaged in a staccato ar¬ 
gument with Major Norton and Sergeant Bassett. The 
result of an hour’s intensive beating of the shrubbery hav¬ 
ing failed to establish further discoveries, half-a-dozen 
men were detailed to guard the premises with its gruesome 
contents. To Michael, Major Norton extended a not very 
enthusiastic invitation to spend the brief hours before 
dawn at his residence. Jill, smiling serenely, drove them 
thither in the Buick. 

Despite the lack of sleep Major Norton appeared for 
breakfast at the usual hour and proceeded with grim ur¬ 
gency to assault the telephone. Discovering that the wire 
had not been repaired he proceeded with equal grimness 
to assault his breakfast. In the middle of his second 
rasher Michael arrived, unshaved, tousled, and dirty. The 
host glared at him indignantly. 


198 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

“Good God! Haven’t you the decency to wash yourself 
before appearing at meals in my house?” 

Michael dropped listlessly into a chair. 

“Sorry, sir. The fact is, I had no chance.” 

“No chance! You accept my hospitality, sleep in my 
house. In your clothes by the look of it—” 

“As a matter of fact, sir, I haven’t been to bed.” 

“Then where the devil,” exploded the Major, “have 
you been?” 

Michael helped himself to coffee. 

“At Takyll Place, sir. A little job to do. It failed.” 
He added the last words very quietly. 

Major Norton sat back in his chair. For an instant it 
seemed another outburst were impending, then something 
in Michael’s face checked him. He leant forward. 

“Look here, my boy, does it occur to you that you might 
confide in me?” 

Michael smiled in quick response. 

“There’s no one I’d sooner confide in, sir, believe me. 
I’d have done so sooner, but to put it frankly, your position 
cramps your style. You’ve probably guessed that I’m 
implicated in the present situation of Christine Abbott. 
That’s because I believe with all the conviction I’m cap¬ 
able of that Christine never committed the crime she was 
sentenced for. And also because—“Michael hesitated for 
a second, “because I am in love with Christine Abbott and 
intend to marry her. So I went back to Takyll Place last 
night in order to find proofs that would set her free. You 
see,” he hitched his chair round so as to face his host, 
“Christine was abducted from prison because she knew 
the combination of a safe in my uncle’s study. For reasons 
of their own these crooks didn’t want to force the safe. The 
inducement to Christine was the existence, within the 
safe, of proofs of her innocence. She didn’t find them 
there, but I am convinced that the proofs exist somewhere, 



THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 199 

because, well,” Michael struck the table with sudden 

energy, “May I ask, sir, whether you ever knew Christine 
Abbott?” 

Major Norton nodded. 

“As your uncle’s secretary, yes. No more than that. 
But she was a pal of Jill’s.” He spoke with unwonted 
quietness. “My dear boy, it was a rotten business, and, 
on the face of it, inexplicable, that a girl of that sort should 
stoop to such devices to gain money. But there may have 
been, must have been, motives, of which we know nothing. 
Probably she was desperate for want of money. Some 
private scandal, probably. We are not likely to learn the 
truth about that.” 

Michael shook his head firmly. 

“No, not even the worst private scandal would drive 
anyone like Christine to blackmail. Soul-murder, as I 
have heard it called. She might have borrowed or begged, 
or even stolen. Listen, sir, while I give you an outline of 
that case as I had it from her own lips. Harnley, for all 
his shrewdness in business and finance, was a fool where 
women were concerned. He had affairs. Each affair, from 
his marriage onwards, was damaging both to his peace and 
his purse. He seemed to have a genius for finding harpies, 
poor devil. Sometimes I think that that is the explanation 
for the bitterness between him and his sister. Some of 
those women, I daresay, were associates of crooks. At¬ 
tempts were made from time to time to blackmail Harnley, 
generally without more than temporary success, though 
their cumulative effect must have made him very bitter. 
Then came the most resolute attempt of all, with Christine 
Abbott as the tool. That meant, in the event of failure, 
that Christine would suffer while the real perpetrators 
went scot free. They hadn’t any animosity against Chris¬ 
tine, but if Harnley should cut up rough there was Chris¬ 
tine to take what was coming. As Harnley’s secretary, 


200 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

presumably well acquainted with his private affairs, she 
formed the obvious choice.” 

Michael stirred his coffee mechanically. 

Major Norton nodded. “Go on.” 

“Harnley’s wealth,” Michael said, “made him a natural 
target. And Harnley’s stupid affairs with these women 
provided the barbs. They meant to sting him. It began 
with a series of communications of the usual kind, remind¬ 
ing him of certain incidents at certain places, and certain 
letters that would be returned, for a consideration. As a 
rule Harnley purchased immunity. Sometimes he fought 
and won. In this case he employed a private detective, 
who examined the threatening letters and followed care¬ 
fully prepared clues. Little similarities were discovered 
in the letters with the handwriting of Christine Abbott. 
They were forged similarities, but so cleverly done that 
a handwriting expert declared Christine to be the author. 
Probably if these crooks had merely copied Christine’s 
writing faithfully the forgery would have been detected. 
But they forged similarities, which shows they were clever. 
Other clues, all with an eye to an emergency, were pre¬ 
pared. The rendezvous for the delivery of cash was se¬ 
lected as one that Christine sometimes visited on her 
walks. When Harnley, on the detective’s advice, made a 
payment with Treasury notes, some of them were traced 
to Christine’s banking account, having been consigned 
there with a deposit slip bearing what purported to be her 
signature. And then Harnley refused to pay any more 
and Christine was arrested. The rest I imagine you 
know.” 

Major Norton nodded again. 

“Yes, the rest is common property. It was convincing 
enough for most of us. You’ll forgive me for saying that 
the defence was so feeble that even we, her friends, could 
not remain in doubt.” 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 201 

“Except Jill,” Michael put in. 

“Yes, except Jill. But Jill is young and enthusiastic 
and not very qualified to judge.” 

“And so you still believe Christine did this?” Michael 
asked quietly. 

Major Norton moved uneasily. 

“My dear fellow, frankly, what am I to believe? Hard- 
boiled facts, or your instincts? The story you tell me has, 
I admit, a convincing sound, but it is utterly unsupported. 
And this chimera of a search for proofs of innocence— 
what bearing has that on the presence of a gang of es¬ 
caped convicts at Takyll Place. Unless, I must speak 
plainly, Christine Abbott were in league with them? Is 
it not more likely, on the face of it, that the young woman 
and her associates were concerned in some fresh devilry 
against your uncle? I am afraid that will be the police 
view of it.” Major Norton shook his head and shrugged. 
“I wish you’d kept out of this, my boy.” 

Michael smiled. 

“I shall never be out of it until Christine is cleared. I 
have a feeling that that won’t be until we find out what’s 
been going on at Takyll Place during the past two weeks. 
By the way, what happened to our young friend from 
Scotland Yard?” 

Major Norton snorted. 

“That monumental ass! He needs a kick in the pants.” 

“He seems to have received the equivalent, at any rate. 
But he may have useful information. You remember that 
incoherent stuff about a conspiracy involving two hundred 
thousand pounds? It doesn’t sound like blackmail, that. 
Though there’s Harnley’s suicide to explain.” 

“If it was suicide.” 

Michael stared thoughtfully. 

“I am almost certain it was,” he said. “For one thing, 
Harnley was insane. There is no doubt about that. How 


202 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

else can you explain his dismissal of honest old servants 
in favor of these criminals? Jill has a theory—it sounds 
crazy, but it fits the facts—that Harnley is the Crooks’ 
Shepherd himself. 

A snort of derision came from Major Norton. “If you’re 
going to listen to schoolgirl theories out of dime novels,” 
he said, “we shan’t get far.” 

Michael knit his brows. The Major shifted in his chair. 

“This sort of thing puts me in a damned unpleasant 
position,” he went on jerkily. “You leave me with no al¬ 
ternative but to carry out a duty that properly belongs 
to the police. Christine Abbott must be handed over, 
guilty or innocent. You realize that?” 

Michael nodded silently. 

“Then I must ask you to say where you have concealed 
her,” Major Norton pursued with a forced firmness that 
revealed his distaste for the question. The young man 
nodded again. 

“There will be no attempt at evasion,” he said. “But 
as long as—” he stopped suddenly and half rose to his 
feet, for the door had opened and Jill, fresh as though she 
had slept the clock round, entered. At her side stood 
Christine Abbott. 

A strangled exclamation came from Major Norton. Ris¬ 
ing, he gripped his chair as he stared at the girl. 

“Darling,” Jill interposed soothingly, “Don't be apo¬ 
plectic, please.” 

The Major dropped limply back into his chair, gulping 
painfully. He began to speak but Jill stopped him. 

“Not now, darling. Chris is so hungry, and we’re going 
to have breakfast first.” 

“Breakfast! Good God!” 

Christine smiled, a little wanly. 

“It does sound improper, doesn’t it?” she sighed. 
“Please don’t think I mean to give any more trouble. I’ll 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 203 

—I’ll go back when you tell me to. It’s easier to go with 
friends to see me off.” 

Michael drew forward a chair and she sank into it 
with a smile of thanks. But his features were grim. 

“I failed,” he said, half under his breath. 

Christine nodded. 

“I was afraid of that. It is good of you. But I don’t 
mind so much, now.” 

“We’ll win, yet,” Michael assured her. “Make no 
mistake about it!” 

With superb control Major Norton rose and rang the 
bell. On the appearance of Spink he ordered further sup¬ 
plies of bacon and coffee. At the sight of Christine the 
maid’s eyes opened, but before she could speak, her em¬ 
ployer had slammed the door on her. Seating himself 
Major Norton took a deep breath and prepared with true 
British phlegm to play the host. He observed that Chris¬ 
tine was well turned out. Her hair was exquisite. It 
struck him with disconcerting force this Christine Abbott 
was a remarkably beautiful young woman, with the deli¬ 
cate features and steady gaze of breeding and sanity. And 
also a criminal with a price on her head. 

“May I ask,” he said presently, “where you spent last 
night?” 

Christine’s lips ever so slightly twitched. 

“Here,” she answered. 

For an instant British phlegm was jeopardized. A warn¬ 
ing glance from Jill restored the balance. 

“Where else do you suppose Chris could spend it, dar¬ 
ling? In the village lock-up?” 

Major Norton was dumbfounded. Glancing round the 
breakfast table, at Michael unshaved and weary, Jill cool 
and serenely unruffled and Christine subdued but by no 
means the popular notion of an escaped convict, he was 
reminded of a scene in a farce. It deeply disturbed him, 


204 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

for in his opinion farce and British Justice do not mix. 

Then he thought of the record of this girl who formed 
such an incongruous guest at his table, and yet looked 
exactly right there. By all standards she was the lowest 
of the low, a creature without a single decent instinct. A 
social parasite of the worst description. An evil-minded 
harpy. 

He suddenly sprang to his feet and flung down his 
napkin. 

“Pish! Good God! It’s—it’s preposterous!” 

Jill regarded him calmly. 

“What is, darling?” 

“Why, she —” Major Norton pointed an indignantly 
trembling forefinger at Christine. “That girl’s no more 
capable of committing such crimes than I am!” 

Christine met Michael’s eye. Jill, smiling equably, 
continued her breakfast. 

The door opened and Spink’s countenance, goggle-eyed, 
appeared. 

“A gentleman to see you, sir. Chief Inspector Gidleigh, 
from Scotland Yard!” 


Chapter XXIII 


Christine went very white and started to rise, but 
Michael at her side held her arm restrainingly. Major 
Norton had started to speak, and in his consternation, 
failed. Before he could articulate an order the figure of 
Chief Inspector Gidleigh appeared in the doorway behind 
Spink. Gidleigh’s mien as he addressed himself to the 
Major was apologetic. He appeared not to have noticed 
the company, nor Michael’s studiously casual nod of 
recognition, in his anxiety to excuse his untimely intrusion. 

“It’s an unpardonable hour to call, I’m afraid, sir, but 
the fact is, certain clues have brought me here. I am 
anxious to discuss them with you.” The detective gazed 
pensively down at the breakfast table. “Of course I’ll—- 
er—withdraw until you’ve finished breakfast if you’d pre¬ 
fer it.” 

Major Norton shot an uncomfortable glance at his 
guests. But each was assiduously concentrating on the 
business of eating. On Jill’s face was an expression of 
controlled excitement. Major Norton scowled. Trust 
Jill to find a situation like this enlivening. The solution 
of the impasse came to him in a peculiarly British manner. 

205 


206 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

“Er—hadn’t you better have some breakfast, Inspector? 
That is—unless you’ve—” 

“Very kind of you, sir, I’m sure. No, I haven’t had 
any, as a matter of fact. Came down by the newspaper 
train to Barnborough.” The detective rubbed his hands 
together with anticipatory gratification. “I will admit to 
feeling a little hungry, sir.” 

The grin on Jill’s face widened as her father carefully 
drew up another chair on Michael’s left, thus obscuring 
his new guest’s view of Christine. Then he rang the bell 
again for Spink and replenishments of eggs and bacon. 
Spink’s reaction to the sight of the grim visitor amicably 
seated at the family table is too complicated to analyze, 
and the Major’s emotions also may be described as mixed. 
There was nothing in the Justices’ Manual to assist him 
in coping with such a situation, and he liked prescribed 
rules of conduct for all the affairs of life. Here was he, a 
magistrate, having breakfast with an escaped convict and 
a Scotland Yard official. A situation that Jill might find 
funny, but it had its undercurrent of tragedy. Presently 
the tragedy would be apparent. 

Michael broke a silence that threatened to become op¬ 
pressive. 

“Would you mind passing the marmalade?” 

Chief Inspector Gidleigh met the young man’s glance 
with apparent surprise. 

“Bless me, Mr. Chillaton, I hadn’t realized it was you! 
You’ll pardon my preoccupation, I hope.” 

Major Norton cleared his throat uneasily. 

“My fault,” he put in. “Entirely my fault. I should 
have introduced you to your—er—fellow guests, In¬ 
spector, but to tell you the truth, I was startled by your 
entry, and I—er—. However,” he waved a hand vaguely 
round the table, “Er—take the—er—members of my 
family as introduced, won’t you?” 




THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 207 

He had got out of that rather well, he thought. Fortu¬ 
nately the detective did not appear interested in his fellow 
guests with the exception of Michael. 

“It’s a curious thing, Mr. Chillaton,” Gidleigh went on, 
stirring his coffee reflectively, “how Paunceforte’s line of 
inquiry and mine should converge like this. You’ve met 
our Mr. Paunceforte, of course.” 

“I managed to penetrate Mr. Paunceforte’s disguise,” 
he remarked. 

“Was he disguised? Dear, dear, that seems rather 
foolish,” Gidleigh said mildly. 

“Foolish!” interjected Major Norton with sudden vehe¬ 
mence. “The fellow’s a pitiful imbecile! An incurable 
case of arrested development, by God! Been here all this 
time and never discovered those con—” He checked him¬ 
self on meeting Jill’s eye. The Inspector shook his head 
with a barely concealed smile of gratification. 

“Hardly an imbecile, sir. Hardly that. As a matter of 
fact, Paunceforte is highly intelligent. He lacks experi¬ 
ence, of course, and—um—stability, but I can assure you 
that the Assistant Commissioner has a very high opinion 
of Paunceforte’s ability. More than he has of—um— 
some of us. However, as I was saying, it’s curious that I 
should find myself on his territory, so to speak, because 
my task has been to trace the escaped convicts who were 
reasonably thought to be in hiding in London, whereas 
clues to one of them at least—that is, Minser—have led 
me down here. And I know now that Paunceforte has 
discovered the whole gang in hiding at Lord Harnley’s 
house. Very extraordinary. In the whole course of my 
experience I cannot recall anything so extraordinary as 
that.” 

“So Paunceforte takes the credit of that discovery, does 
he?” Major Norton demanded with sardonic emphasis. 

The detective nodded. 


208 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

“I saw him this morning on my arrival together with the 
Divisional Inspector from Barnborough and the Chief 
Constable. Officially, I am in charge of the—um—case.” 

“The murder, hey I Any clues?” 

The detective coughed evasively. 

“It is a little early to say, sir. It will be my duty to— 
um—survey the neighborhood—and its inhabitants.” He 
paused to sip his coffee and Jill’s eyes sought Michael’s, 
with alert interest. The implication of the detective’s last 
remark also caused Major Norton to rumble in his throat. 

“In fact, Inspector, you are suggesting the possibility 
that Stopford was murdered by some other party than one 
of the escaped convicts? I confess that doesn’t sound 
very reasonable to me.” 

“No, sir. On the other hand it doesn’t altogether make 
sense to me that all these peculiar people at Takyll Place 
would operate without some outside contact. A very funny 
affair it is, and no mistake. Paunceforte gave me an as¬ 
tonishing recital of his discoveries. He did not—um—give 
me any breakfast, however.” 

“And that’s why you came here?” queried Jill brightly. 
“Besides looking for the murderer?” 

Gidleigh’s eyes were expressionless in a wooden face. 

“Perhaps there’s a third reason, miss. Something that 
our Mr. Paunceforte hasn’t elucidated as yet,” he said 
obscurely, and buttered a piece of toast. Jill grimaced 
impatiently. 

“Did Paunceforte tell you we found him elucidating 
things in a housemaid’s cupboard,” she asked, “after the 
gang had run away? The ones that hadn’t been killed, 
you know.” 

Chief Inspector Gidleigh’s gaze returned to his youth¬ 
ful vis-a-vis, a smile concealed under his drooping mus¬ 
tache. So this attractive and intelligent young lady meant 
to be another thorn in the flesh of the erudite Mr. Paunce- 


THE CROOKS' SHEPHERD 209 

forte? The Inspector’s heart warmed towards these hos¬ 
pitable people. 

“I gathered that Mr. Paunceforte was—um—overjlow- 
ered by superior numbers, miss,” he said. “Very intrepid, 
I call it, to enter the place single-handed. 

“Damned silly, I call it,” snorted the host. “If that’s 
the kind of fellow the public safety is going to depend on, 
God help us all! What’s he done to clear up this appalling 
muddle, hey? There’s Harnley dead, after the craziest 
behavior that even Harnley was capable of. There’s Stop- 
ford a sodden corpse. Two more corpses in the shape of 
escaped convicts; a woman, a lady, secretary, who seems 
now to have made herself scarce, and—er—” Major Nor¬ 
ton pulled himself up with an effort and began to gulp 
coffee. It was Jill’s eye again he had caught. 

Gidleigh stared across at Jill pensively. 

“Two convicts dead and a third man on the run. Now 
that he’s on the run we’ll get him all right. That’s why 
I’m here. All along of a little chat with the lady he calls 
his wife. H’m, I beg pardon, I’m sure.” He coughed in 
self-reproval. 

But Jill nodded brightly. 

“Has Minser got a mistress, too? He was supposed to 
be a gardener at Lord Harnley’s, you know. But as soon 
as I looked at his hands I knew he wasn’t that. They were 
like an artist’s hands.” 

Gidleigh gazed admiringly. 

“Very observing of you, miss, I must say. Minser’s a 
forger, as a matter of fact. It seems a pity to lock him up 
again. But he is a marked man now. Then there’s the 
fourth escaped convict to find—Christine Abbott—” 

A sudden hush seemed to descend on the room as he 
spoke. Then Major Norton pushed back his chair, as 
though the inevitable, tragic moment had come and he 
must speak. But Gidleigh went on, musingly: 




210 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

“Now that was a case that interested me rather person¬ 
ally, because I’d had my eye on the gang behind all that 
blackmailing. We didn’t fix it on ’em, of course—except 
for the girl herself.” He broke off as Major Norton rose 
in his chair. From the hall had come the sound of the 
telephone bell. The wires, manifestly, had been repaired. 

“You’ll excuse me for a moment, Inspector?” Norton’s 
relief at this brief respite was manifest. The Inspector 
nodded, and helped himself to more toast. They heard 
Major Norton’s voice with a note of surprise in it. A 
moment later he re-entered. 

“A call for Chief Inspector Gidleigh, from Scotland 
Yard. Though how they knew you’d be here—” 

Gidleigh got swiftly to his feet, leaving the query un¬ 
answered he hurried out. It was a lengthy conversation, 
though chiefly monosyllabic on his side and the party at 
the breakfast table were none the wiser at its termination. 
They spoke no word amongst themselves as though by 
tacit consent. Gidleigh re-entered smiling, and reseated 
himself. 

“Let me see,” he remarked, “where was I? Oh, about 
the Abbott case. Well, it was during a little chat I had 
with Minser’s—um—wife. Always a good plan to keep 
friendly with these ladies, I find. Which is where our young 
Paunceforte makes a mistake, in my opinion. Well, there 
was I, taking tea with Mrs. Minser and presently I fills 
my pipe. Being of an economical nature with matches, 
I helps myself from a natty little vase full of paper tapers. 
You wouldn’t think there would be any significance in 
that, would you?” 

The Inspector paused and met Major Norton’s blank 
stare. But Jill was leaning forward. 

“Go on,” she said. “What was the significance?” 

“Why, miss, being a nosey kind of fellow like all us 
detectives, I noticed that these paper spills were made up, 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 211 

partly of scraps of newspaper, partly of old letters, and 
other oddments. It was the handwriting on one of the 
scraps of letter that specially caught my attention because, 
as I say, I’d followed the Abbott case pretty closely and 
I recognized this writing as Christine Abbott’s without 
any doubt whatever.” 

The silence at the table was profound. Gidleigh paused 
to gaze again at Jill, the focus of his attention. 

“A queer thing that, wasn’t it, miss?” 

Jill nodded, silently. 

“Of course I contrived that my pipe should go out more 
often then it usually does and in one way and another I 
got most of these interesting spills out of that vase and 
into my pocket with only some of the tips burnt. To cut 
the story short I took the scraps home and pieced them 
together. They proved to be a letter written by Christine 
Abbott to a concern called the Cornhill Loan Society. In 
this letter she declined the offer of a secretaryship made 
by this firm and expressed surprise at being approached 
with such an offer. It was quite obviously a mystery to 
Christine Abbott how the Cornhill Loan Society had got 
hold of her name, and why they should require her services 
out of the countless thousands of other young ladies avail¬ 
able.” 

The Inspector paused to utter an amused grunt. “It 
was a mystery to me, also, until I took the trouble to find 
out that no such concern as the Cornhill Loan Society 
existed, except as an accommodation address for the brief 
space of one week. The object of securing that letter 
from Christine Abbott becomes very plain when one dis¬ 
covers it in the house of William Minser, the forger.” 

He paused again and Major uttered a whistle of com¬ 
prehension. Michael reached for Christine’s hand and 
found it icy cold. . . . Jill’s eyes never left the detective’s 
face. 


212 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

“It is the proof we want,” Jill said, under her breath. 
Gidleigh shook his head. 

“In itself it is not sufficient proof. But it provided a 
powerful weapon, a lever, to extract further information. 
Before I left the Yard last night I gave instructions as to 
the use of that letter in certain circumstances. Those cir¬ 
cumstances materialized at 6.30 this morning. In other 
words, William Minser has been recaptured. To be exact, 
he has given himself up.” 

Chief Inspector Gidleigh leaned back in his chair. He 
spoke quietly, almost casually, but each syllable seemed 
to pluck at the strung nerves of his hearers. 

“That was the subject of the telephone call I have just 
received. Acting on my instructions Minser was con¬ 
fronted with this letter found in his rooms. He is already 
under sentence of five years for another job, and it was 
put to him that a statement on this letter would not neces¬ 
sarily involve him in a fresh prosecution. He had nothing 
to gain by concealment, but someone else stood to gain 
heavily. That’s apart, of course, from anything we may 
get from him about his doings down here. 

Jill held her breath. Major Norton stared at the de¬ 
tective fixedly. No one made a sound. 

“Minser’s statement was read to me over the tele¬ 
phone,” Gidleigh went on levelly, “It contains nothing 
that implicates his associates. Indeed, he professes com¬ 
plete ignorance of their identities. He was, he says, paid 
for a job of work. That job was the forging of the letters 
in the Abbott blackmail case and Minser’s statement com¬ 
pletely exonerates Christine Abbott.” 

The silence that fell was broken by a single dry sob 
from the girl at Michael’s side. Rising from his chair In¬ 
spector Gidleigh went towards her and held out his hand. 

“May I, Miss Abbott,” he said, “be the first to con¬ 
gratulate you?” 


Chapter XXIV 


From the high backed chair that was set facing the 
open casement of the Delphinium Cottage drawing room 
the Hon. Miss Philadelphia Hemstone observed a person 
who looked like an undertaker, a gloomily clad man with 
black clothes and a drooping mustache. This person 
thrust in the little wicket with one gloved hand, carefully 
reclosed the gate and made his way to Miss Hemstone’s 
front door. A moment later Martha entered the drawing 
room, breathing heavily. 

“A gentleman to see you, ma’am. Chief Inspector Gid- 
leigh from Scotland Yard, ma’am.” She paused, her mouth 
gaping. 

“And what,” quiered Miss Hemstone calmly, “does the 
Chief Inspector from Scotland Yard wish to see me about?” 

The shuffling of heavy boots sounded from the hall be¬ 
yond as Martha shook her head blankly. 

“He didn’t say, ma’am. Just the favor of a few words, 
and he’d come another time if it wasn’t convenient.” 

Miss Hemstone rose and turned her chair so that its 
tall back was against the window. 

“You had better show him in, Martha,” she said clearly. 
“And see that he wipes his boots.” 

213 


214 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

A faint sound, like a muted grunt, betokened the audi¬ 
bility of this speech in the hall. It might have been due to 
Chief Inspector Gidleigh’s exertions on the door mat. It 
was due, as a matter of fact, to the officer’s controlled 
amusement. 

But his features were correctly wooden as he entered 
the tiny drawing room and placed his bowler hat care¬ 
fully upon an occasional table. 

“I apologize, madam, for this intrusion.” 

“There is no need to apologize,” Miss Hemstone re¬ 
turned, “provided you will be brief. Please sit down.” 

Cautiously Gidleigh lowered his bulk into a fragile- 
looking chair. The precariousness of this perch, coupled 
with the strong sunlight in his eyes, would have placed a 
lesser man in a position of inferiority. But not Gidleigh, 
although he sensed a definite respect for his lady’s pres¬ 
ence. 

“My profession, madam,” he observed with the 
lugubrious sigh that preceded so many of his openings, 
“obliges me to make myself something of a nuisance to 
people.” 

Miss Hemstone inclined her head. 

“I cannot envy you your profession, Inspector. No 
doubt, however, it is a necessary one.” She made the last 
observation as though Chief Inspector Gidleigh had con¬ 
fessed to being a public scavenger. 

“Please be brief,” repeated Miss Hemstone. 

“Certainly, madam. My object, as you may have 
guessed, is to ask you a few questions on the subject of 
your brother’s death. You’ll forgive me if it is a painful 
subject.” 

“My brother’s death,” retorted Miss Hemstone grimly, 
“is not a painful subject. Proceed.” 

The Inspector coughed. 

“It would be idle to deny,” he said, “that I have already 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 215 

gathered that his late lordship and yourself were not on 
the best of terms. Local—um—reports—” 

Miss Hemstone sniffed. The sniff implied the scavenger 
of local reports. 

“May I ask, madam, whether you would suspect your 
brother of taking his life?” 

“I would suspect him,” retorted Miss Hemstone, “of 
any folly or wickedness.” She spoke with such vehemence 
and bitterness that Gidleigh darted a quick, appraising 
glance at her. A peculiar lady, he thought. Unsuspected 
depths there. Hard as ice. 

“Do you know of any definite reason why Lord Harnley 
should commit suicide?” 

“No.” 

“Or of any reason why he should be murdered?” 

“No. Except—” She hesitated, and then set her lips 
grimly. 

“Except, madam?” 

“Except that he deserved to be,” said Miss Hemstone. 

Chief Inspector Gidleigh frowned. This was no answer 
to the question. 

“May I ask when you last saw his lordship?” 

“It was many years ago. I do not know when.” 

“You have heard from him?” 

“No.” 

“No communications, whatever?” 

“Through my solicitors, solely.” 

“I see. Not even a telephone conversation?” 

Miss Hemstone hesitated again, as though searching 
her memory, then she answered firmly: 

“Yes: he rang up a week or ten days ago. I forget the 
date. My maid answered the call. I declined, however, 
to speak to him.” 

“So that you do not know why he rang up?” 

“That is so.” 


216 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

“Might we assume, since it was so rare an occasion, 
that Lord Harnley had some very urgent reason for this 
telephone call?” 

Miss Hemstone shrugged slightly. 

“I did not concern myself to assume anything, In¬ 
spector.” 

“You are aware that about that time Mr. Michael Chil- 
laton received a letter from Lord Harnley appealing for 
help against some danger which his lordship evidently 
imagined to be threatening him?” 

“Mr. Chillaton told me something of the sort. I was 
not interested.” 

The detective gazed with some admiration at Miss Hem- 
stone. She was certainly consistent. 

“Have you finished these somewhat tiresome questions, 
Inspector?” 

“If you please, no. Now, madam, you have heard of 
the murder of Stopford, Lord Harnley’s personal man. I 
remind you of this to demonstrate that the danger threat¬ 
ening his lordship was not imaginary. Our discovery of 
Stopford’s body in the lake was due to an anonymous letter 
sent to the local police. So far the sender of that letter 
has not come forward, but there are reasons to believe it 
might be a local person.” The detective paused and added, 
almost reflectively, “I suppose you couldn’t give me 
any idea where we might look for the sender of that 
letter?” 

Miss Hemstone tittered sharply. 

“A ridiculous question,” she remarked. “The answer is 
certainly not.” 

Gidleigh nodded and sighed as though regretting the 
fool he had made of himself. Then from his overcoat 
pocket he drew out two envelopes, laying them on his 
knees. From the first he extracted what appeared to be a 
piece of brown fluff. 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 217 

“I found this/’ he said, “on some brambles in the 
neglected garden of the Tarn House. The sort of brambles 
that—um—catch in one’s clothing.” Very carefully Gid- 
leigh replaced the scrap in its envelope. From the other 
envelope he produced a similar piece of fluff. Miss Hem- 
stone’s eyes never flickered. 1 

“This, madam, was discovered in the shrubbery near 
the terrace at Takyll Place. You will observe that it is 
fur, from a coat that has evidently been moth-eaten. 
When a fur coat gets into that condition bits come out at 
the slightest tug. The bits I have shown you are obviously 
from the same coat. While waiting in the hall just now 
I took the liberty of comparing these pieces of fur with a 
coat hanging there. There is no doubt whatever that the 
fur matches my specimens. 

Chief Inspector Gidleigh replaced the envelopes in his 
pocket. His voice when he spoke again was curiously soft. 

“I am prepared to be told, madam, that your recent 
presence in the grounds of the Tarn House and at Takyll 
Place has no bearing whatever on the subject of my in¬ 
vestigations. I am prepared to believe a reasonable as¬ 
surance. Can you, Miss Hemstone, give me that assur¬ 
ance?” 

Miss Hemstone’s fingers were tightly clasped in her 
lap. Her features, always bloodless, betrayed not the 
slightest index to her emotions, if indeed, she possessed 
any, other than those of ridicule and scorn. 

“I can certainly assure you, Inspector, that your so- 
called discoveries have no connection with the death of 
my brother.” 

“Or of Stopford?” 

“Or of Stopford. Of course.” 

Chief Inspector Gidleigh nodded. 

“I am glad to have that assurance, madam. I should 
be gladder if you will back it up with some explanation.” 


218 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

Miss Hemstone shook her head. 

“I have none to offer.” 

“Very well, for the moment I will not press that. But 
there is a question which I am bound to ask you, that you 
may consider invidious. A necessary formality. In the 
event of your brother’s death you knew that you stood to 
benefit financially?” 

Miss Hemstone inclined her head silently. 

“Can you tell me to what extent you will benefit?” 

“Not exactly. It will be to a very limited extent. My 
nephew is the principal heir.” 

“So I understand. And your brother was a rich man?” 

“I believe so.” 

“Would it surprise you, madam, to know that his lord¬ 
ship’s estate has been depleted to the extent of nearly two 
hundred thousand pounds?” 

Miss Hemstone’s hard eyes met the detective steadily— 
and conveyed to him nothing at all of what he sought to 
learn. There was neither surprise nor consternation nor 
any uneasiness in her gaze. 

“I am certainly astonished,” she said quietly, “to learn 
that my brother’s follies involved him to that extent.” 

The detective leaned forward. 

“When a capital crime is committed, he said, “inquiries 
are set on foot in a hundred directions at once. The vic¬ 
tim’s financial, social, and personal affairs become public 
property. This is not the first time, as you are aware, that 
his late lordship’s affairs have concerned the police. In the 
past there have been blackmailing episodes, in particular 
what was known as the Abbott case, in which a young lady 
was falsely accused, and falsely convicted.” 

Gidleigh paused abruptly once more. But the woman 
he addressed seemed to react to nothing. . . . Conceal¬ 
ing his secret chagrin he grunted: 

“This does not surprise you, madam?” 



THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 219 

She shook her head. 

“Nor does it interest me. Must I repeat that my broth¬ 
er’s follies are no concern of mine?” 

“It must, at least, distress you to know that his estate 
has been defrauded on this colossal scale?” 

“If it affects me personally, yes. If it merely affects Mr. 
Michael Chillaton, no.” 

Despite himself Gidleigh smiled. 

“Your cynicism is almost refreshing, Miss Hemstone. 
It is possible, however, that what I am about to reveal 
will affect you. I do not know—” The Inspector paused 
as though uncertain how to begin. “You will recall, 
madam, the circumstances of an accident to Lord Harn- 
ley. His lordship, apparently, was knocked down at night 
by a passing motor car and left unconscious on the road, 
suffering from shock and a slight wound on one cheek. He 
was discovered by his nephew, and after medical atten¬ 
tion returned to Takyll Place. His behavior subsequently 
became so strange that Mr. Chillaton and others were 
convinced that his lordship must be suffering from a men¬ 
tal breakdown. It proved impossible, however, to induce 
Lord Harnley to take medical advice, because from that 
moment he practically shut himself up, even from his 
nephew, and saw no one except the somewhat peculiar 
staff of newly engaged servants, who have since become 
revealed as criminals and fugitives from justice. All this 
you have probably heard in some form or other?” 

The detective paused again, but this aggravating lady 
neither confirmed nor denied his supposition. Gidleigh 
decided with sardonic relish that the Hon. Miss Hem- 
stone would prove a thorny subject for any cross-examin¬ 
ing counsel. . . . 

“What I am about to tell you now, however,” he went 
on, “is not common knowledge as yet. I have said that 
after the road accident there was a small wound on the 


220 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

victim’s cheek. Subsequently a large piece of sticking 
plaster was worn over the wound. Yet, when we discov¬ 
ered Lord Harnley dead from a revolver shot there was no 
wound and no trace of a scar. What, Miss Hemstone, do 
you infer from that peculiar circumstance?” 

Miss Hemstone shook her head, thin-lipped. 

“What am I expected to infer?” 

“I will add a further detail. Upon the left cheek of the 
dead convict, Clifford Neyland, there was a scar, a super¬ 
ficial wound, barely healed.” Gidleigh paused again. “The 
inference,” he said, “is surely obvious.” 

“You are telling me that my brother was impersonated 
by—by this convict?” 

“Yes.” Gidleigh was watching her keenly now. Was 
there a tremor of those hard lips? 

“How very ingenious,” remarked Miss Hemstone. 

Gidleigh controlled the desire to swear. 

“It was, as you say, ingenious. The scar, necessitating 
a wound dressing, helped admirably as a disguise. Then 
Neyland had been an actor, of sorts, before he went 
crooked. His greatest asset, however—” once again the 
detective paused to emphasize his words: “Neyland’s 
greatest asset, madam, was an extraordinary personal re¬ 
semblance to Lord Harnley ” 

The silence that fell then contained a peculiar quality 
of intensity. Gidleigh kept his gaze fixed unwaveringly on 
the lady in her high backed chair. He was aware that her 
hands had tightened their clasp, and of a curious rigidity 
in the gaunt body, but it was at Miss Hemstone’s face he 
looked. And not by the merest flicker of an eyelid did Miss 
Hemstone betray anything but the most casual interest 
in Chief Inspector Gidleigh’s remarkable statement. 

“Very interesting,” observed Miss Hemstone steadily. 
“You are assuming, of course, that this convict must be a 
member of the family.” 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 221 

“It is a natural, an inevitable assumption,” Gidleigh re¬ 
turned. “Neyland was younger—by twenty years—a man 
of forty-five at the most. Nevertheless there are facial 
peculiarities so strongly marked that no other assumption 
is reasonable. It is obvious that the person who engineered 
this deception must have known of the resemblance and 
organized Neyland’s escape accordingly. You now un¬ 
derstand, Miss Hemstone, why I have come to see 
you?” 

The old lady nodded. She spoke very quietly now, al¬ 
most under her breath, but as decisively: 

“I understand, but I cannot help you.” 

“You do not know who Neyland was?” 

“I do not know.” 

“Is it possible there could be a—black sheep—of the 
family, without your knowledge?” 

“It is quite possible. I advise you to interrogate other 
members of the family, Inspector. My nephew Chillaton, 
for instance.” 

“Mr. Chillaton can tell me nothing,” Gidleigh said. 
“Shall I give you the police history of Clifford Neyland, 
Miss Hemstone?” 

Miss Hemstone shrugged. 

“I have no wish to hear it.” 

“Nonetheless, I will give it.” From an inner pocket the 
Inspector produced an official note-book and opened it. 
He knew its contents almost by heart, and this action was 
no more than another maneuver to break down that gran¬ 
ite reserve. 

“Neyland first came under our notice fifteen years ago. 
He was then an actor with a provincial touring company. 
Convicted for robbing fellow members of the company. 
Subsequent convictions include fraud and robbery with 
violence. Eventually sentenced to seven years at Dart¬ 
moor. Here follows a description, with which I will not 


222 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

trouble you. Finally, I have a note as to Neyland’s ante¬ 
cedents.” Gidleigh was speaking now with slow deliber¬ 
ation. 

“Parentage unknown. Brought up by farm laborers 
near Cleckton, in Hertfordshire. Remittances received 
from unknown source up to age of sixteen, when he ap¬ 
pears to have tracked down the source—to his own bene¬ 
fit. Appears to have lived a precocious and idle life on the 
increased remittances until—” Abruptly, Gidleigh snapped 
up the notebook and looked at Miss Hemstone. 

“Do you wish me to go on?” he asked. 

The thin white hands clutched each other almost fiercely 
now, so that the blue veins stood out. 

“It is immaterial to me, Inspector.” 

Gidleigh leant forward. 

“You drive me,” he said. “Please believe that I do not 
enjoy this task. But if you continue to drive me I must 
tell you that the farm laborers at Cleckton are still alive, 
and that they would be prepared to identify the unknown 
lady who brought them a child on a specified date forty- 
five years ago.” 

Miss Hemstone rose to her feet. He saw that she was 
trembling now, and pitied her from the bottom of his 
heart. 

“Please go,” she said. “I have nothing to tell you.” 

Gidleigh stood up. 

“What you say now,” he answered quietly, “may spare 
you future pain. I shall make no use of the information 
I have gained unless it assists me in finding the author of 
at least two murders. That I am resolved to do.” 

“I have nothing to tell you,” Miss Hemstone repeated 
fiercely. 

“Listen, please. Your quarrel with Lord Harnley came 
to a head when he reduced your allowance to the border 
line of poverty. You were no longer able to send those 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 223 

remittances. Clifford Neyland drifted deeper into 
crime—” 

Gidleigh picked up his hat and walked to the door. With 
his hand on the knob he turned. Miss Hemstone was sit¬ 
ting again in her high-backed chair, her face inscrutable. 

Chief Inspector Gidleigh let himself out of Delphinium 
Cottage, profoundly dissatisfied with the interview. 



Chapter XXV 


Colonel Tankerville settled his spectacles, cleared 
his throat, and glanced round his office. These were the 
gestures of one who expects the entire attention of his 
audience and is accustomed to get it. Chief Inspector Gid- 
leigh, on his left, perhaps the only member of the assembly 
to exhibit discernible lack of proper alertness. On the 
Assistant-Commissioner’s right Christine Abbott, very 
charming and certainly incapable of that monstrous crime. 
Next to her Michael Chillaton, a look of settled content 
on his features. Opposite sat Paunceforte, correctly clad, 
his eyes glinting omnisciently. Lastly there was Miss Jill 
Norton, whose richly colored lips were parted with amuse¬ 
ment and eagerness. The Assistant-Commissioner cleared 
his throat again and picked up a typewritten sheaf of 
papers. 

“As you are aware,” he began, “I have called this meet¬ 
ing for the purpose of co-ordinating your knowledge of the 
events that have recently taken place at the home of the 
late Lord Harnley. Those events have been of so fantas¬ 
tic a character that it is my firm belief that only the mental 
derangement of Lord Harnley himself can explain them. 

224 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 225 

My view of Harnley’s insanity dates from an interview 
I had recently with his nephew, Mr. Michael Chillaton, 
during which I was afforded an opportunity of reading an 
extraordinary missive appealing for assistance against 
some mythical enemy. As a result of that appeal Mr. 
Chillaton left his work in Wolverhampton and proceeded 
to Takyll Place. Most of you are aware of the general 
sequence of events after that, but by my instructions these 
events have been carefully detailed on paper in the hope 
that a recital of them will elicit from you such further de¬ 
tails as to clear up what is still a complete mystery to us, 
that is to say, the identity of the person or persons respon¬ 
sible for the conspiracy which has resulted in the loss to 
the estate of the late Lord Harnley of no less a sum than 
two hundred thousand pounds. Hr’rm.” 

Colonel Tankerville flicked over a leaf of the typescript 
in his hand, Inspector Gidleigh changed over his legs and 
sighed patiently. 

“One unexpected but highly gratifying result of our 
investigations,” the Assistant-Commissioner went on, “has 
been the rehabilitation of Miss Christine Abbott.” Here 
Colonel Tankerville paused again to make a little bow in 
Christine’s direction. “Unfortunately, however, the fact 
that Miss Abbott is proved innocent of complicity in an 
old plot to blackmail Lord Harnley does not assist us in 
the least with our present inquiry. Miss Abbott was ab¬ 
ducted from Hollbury prison because she knew the com¬ 
bination of a small safe in the study at Takyll Place. As 
an inducement to comply with their wishes she was assured 
that the safe contained the proofs of her innocence. That 
assurance, of course, was false.” 

“Now we come to the means employed by the conspir¬ 
ators to carry out their colossal scheme. For an admirable 
summary I am indebted to a member of my staff—” Here 
Colonel Tankerville glanced momentarily at Pauncefore, 


226 THE^ CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

whilst Gidleigh sighed again—“who has displayed re¬ 
markable acumen and ingenuity in its compilation. Be¬ 
ginning with the shrewd assumption that each of the es¬ 
caped convicts was selected for a specified task we are 
able to reconstruct the plot. First, then, it was necessary 
to remove the manservant Stopford who was in close per¬ 
sonal attendance on Lord Harnley. Secondly, Lord Harn- 
ley himself was removed. How that was done may be news 
to some of you and the discovery of the method employed 
is yet another instance of excellent detective work.” Again 
the Assistant-Commissioner glanced at Paunceforte, again 
Gidleigh sighed. The Assistant-Commissioner turned to 
Michael. 

“Kindly verify, Mr. Chillaton, these circumstances of 
the accident to your uncle.” 

Michael nodded. 

“You found him knocked unconscious. Although ap¬ 
parently suffering from severe shock the only injury was a 
superficial one—a deep scratch on the left cheek?” 

Again Michael nodded. 

“The next time you saw your uncle was in a semi- 
darkened room. He had then a large patch of sticking 
plaster over that cheek?” 

“Yes, that is right.” 

“And the only subsequent occasion on which you saw 
your uncle prior to his death was in the doorway of the 
hall at Takyll Place, in company with the bogus butler 
and the woman known as Bernice Randall. The hall, I 
believe, was unlighted.” 

Again Michael nodded. 

“When your uncle was found shot there was no scar on 
his cheek. It is not conceivable that any scar, however 
slight, should vanish in so short a space of time. The in¬ 
ference becomes obvious—that your uncle was imperson- 



THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 227 

ated from the time of the accident. So you were deceived, 
as others were deceived. Needless to say, precautions 
were taken that no intimate friend should be allowed 
near Lord Iiarnley. His lordship was suffering from shock, 
it was given out, and his impersonator repelled friendly 
advances with a characteristic surliness. Remember, too, 
that you had not seen Harnley for six years.” 

“Now as to the real Harnley. It is probable that he was 
assaulted while out walking with his hound by a member 
of the gang in hiding within the coppice bordering the 
roadway. The sham Harnley was then left lying in the 
road for you or any other passer-by to discover. The 
bloodhound was shot as a potential danger. Probably 
Harnley himself was taken back to Takyll Place and kept 
a prisoner. In that half empty mansion it would easily be 
done.” 

The Assistant-Commissioner flicked over another leaf 
of the typescript. 

“I think that is quite clear,” he said assertively. 

Michael gave a mechanical nod; Inspector Gidleigh 
smiled faintly and re-crossed his legs. Paunceforte con¬ 
tinued to sit motionless, very correct in his official de¬ 
meanor and manifestly satisfied with himself. He did 
not apparently observe the veiled grimace Jill made in his 
direction, nor Christine, half puzzled, half amused, glance 
in his direction. Colonel Tankerville’s monotonous re¬ 
cital continued: 

“So much for what we may call the groundwork of the 
plot. We now come to its execution. The convict Neyland 
had been allotted his role and Parkwell the safe-breaker 
had been substituted for Stopford, the faithful servant. 
Parkwell was obviously intended to step into the breach 
should Miss Christine Abbott prove obdurate. The last 
of the four convicts to arrive, Minser, became a gardener, 


228 THE CROOKS' SHEPHERD 

and the remaining member of this interesting house-party. 
Bernice Randall ostensibly fulfilled the functions of sec¬ 
retary and housekeeper. It is impossible to suppose that 
these changes in the household of the eccentric Lord Harn- 
ley would pass unnoticed in the neighborhood, but equally 
there was absolutely no reason to connect such changes 
with the escaped convicts. In fact, no corner of England 
stood less chance of being searched for them. The un¬ 
known organizer knew that. 

“In due course Miss Abbott was required to open the 
safe in Lord Harnley’s study. Although well aware that 
the safe contained no valuables in the ordinary sense, she 
at first refused. During the altercation that ensued she 
was very nearly extricated by Mr. Chillaton, who seems 
in some highly improper manner to have kept his knowl¬ 
edge of her presence there to himself. Eventually/’ the 
Assistant-Commissioner paused to dart a censorious glance 
over his spectacles at Michael, “Mr. Chillaton may be 
required to defend himself against a charge of failing in 
his duty.” 

Michael smiled grimly. Jill’s soft laugh was audible. 

“You can count me in on that, too,” she said coolly. 

“I am sorry to hear it,” remarked the Assistant-Com¬ 
missioner primly. “Not only is such conduct reprehensible 
in itself, but it seriously hampered the investigations of 
the officer we sent down. We will return to this matter 
anon.” He cleared his throat and resumed. 

“Eventually Miss Abbott was induced to open the safe. 
Its contents, she informs us, consisted of personal and 
business letter files, including correspondence with Lord 
Harnley’s broker in London, a bank pass-book, and a 
check book. These contents were precisely what the or¬ 
ganizer of the conspiracy needed. He was now able, with¬ 
out fear of interrogation, or danger of immediate dis¬ 
covery, to dictate letters to the broker, through the work 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 229 

of Minser, giving instructions for the realization of a large 
part of his investments and their conversion into cash 
or bearer bonds, subsequently, I have no doubt, to be 
remitted abroad and perhaps changed into half-a-dozen 
different currencies to decrease the risk of tracing such 
huge sums. We know now that the Harnley estate is poorer 
by close to two hundred thousand pounds. And although 
Mr. Chillaton, as heir to the estate, is still a very wealthy 
young man, it is our duty to discover where this money 
has gone in order to throw some light on the activities of 
the man—perhaps it is a woman—who was prepared to 
commit a series of cold-blooded murders to obtain it. In¬ 
cluding the murder of his own colleagues.” 

“With the exception of Minser,” Gidleigh interjected 
quietly. 

“Exactly. The reason for that is not plain.” 

“We might assume, sir, that Minser was the only man 
who didn’t know too much.” 

The Assistant-Commissioner, shrugging tolerantly, 
glanced at Paunceforte. 

“Is that your view?” he inquired. Paunceforte shrugged 
back with an acid smile. 

“It is p-possible, sir.” 

The Inspector scowled. The next moment he met Mi¬ 
chael’s eye and grinned sardonically. 

“It seems the only reasonable explanation,” Michael 
said. “Parkwell and Neyland may have become too in¬ 
quisitive. The safety of the crook who ran this graft de¬ 
pends on carefully concealing his identity. I have a feel¬ 
ing that our unknown friend was uneasy about the other 
two, including,” Michael paused deliberately, “Miss 
Christine Abbott. If I had not interfered, illegally, as 
you view it, Miss Abbott would have been electrocuted 

also.” t 

Christine was aware of three pairs of keen eyes on her 


230 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

suddenly. The eyes of Colonel Tankerville and Gidleigh 
and Paunceforte. 

“I have understood,” the Assistant-Commissioner said, 
“that Miss Abbott is not in a position to identify the per¬ 
son who organized this affair.” 

Christine Abbott shook her head uncertainly. 

“No, that is, I am not sure. He had a curious voice, 
and screwed-up eyes. But I saw little beyond the eyes. 
Perhaps if I heard the voice again, I should know. And 
yet he tried to kill me—to kill us all.” 

Colonel Tankerville grunted. 

“Not very helpful, I am afraid,” he commented. “I 
am afraid you cannot be regarded as a danger to the mur¬ 
derer’s peace of mind. On the other hand it is certainly 
possible that the woman Bernice Randall may be able to 
give us information. So far we have not succeeded in 
tracing her.” 

Christine shivered. 

“I think she is dead, too,” she said. “That is how —he 
—regarded us. Just so many pawns in his game. To be 
used, and then destroyed. He was inhuman.” 

Chief Inspector Gidleigh turned his head in his slow 
fashion. 

“You are sure it was a man?” he asked. 

“Yes—almost sure.” 

Gidleigh nodded. 

“Perhaps it is healthier not to know, for the present,” 
the Inspector observed reflectively. “Like Minser, who 
curbed his curiosity and lives. Minser has gone back to 
finish his sentence with a joyful heart. When he comes 
out, he says, he is to receive ten thousand pounds. No one 
will know where it comes from. Not even Minser. And 
he won’t want to know. It strikes me, without any det¬ 
riment to Paunceforte’s little summary, we are no wiser 
than we were before all this talking began. Lord Harn- 


( 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 231 

ley’s dead, whether by his own hand or not doesn’t mat¬ 
ter, and several others are equally dead. Lastly there’s 
a couple of hundred thousand gone where it’s going to be 
useful to someone. It was a clever scheme, but in my opin¬ 
ion it didn’t go altogether as it was meant to go. The 
original idea was to carry the thing through without these 
murders. Neyland and Parkwell and Miss Abbott were 
to return to jail precisely as Minser has returned. They 
were to finish their sentences and be compensated hand¬ 
somely on release. But Parkwell got nosey and Neyland 
discovered something; that made them both dangerous. 
I believe there were other complications. Lastly, Mr. 
Chillaton’s discovery of Miss Abbott and subsequent in¬ 
tervention upset the apple cart. Instead of a neat fraud 
that would merely look as though Harnley had been the 
victim of another blackmailing attack, culminating in his 
own suicide, and leaving no trace at all of anything that 
could warrant police investigation, the whole thing went 
cock-eyed. Those murders became necessary. And be¬ 
cause those murders had to be committed,” Gidleigh con¬ 
cluded, thumping his knees for emphasis, “the man be¬ 
hind the show is in fear of his own life. He knows he’s 
bungled and he’s every right to be scared stiff. He’ll be 
too careful. Then we shall get him—or her” 

Gidleigh stopped abruptly. Michael glanced at him in 
surprise. It seemed unlike Gidleigh to get grim like this. 
The Assistant-Commissioner was annoyed. Paunceforte’s 
stare was coldly hostile. 

“P-permit me to say—” remarked Paunceforte, “that 
I d-disagree. The p-p-plot has been p-p-perfectly success¬ 
ful. Had it not b-b-been for the interference of M-M-Mr. 
Chillaton I m-m-might have f-f-frustrated it. As it is, we 
have not a single c-c-clue to the identity of the p-p-p-per- 
son who p-p-perpetrated it.” 

Mr. Paunceforte shut his lips tightly to indicate that 


232 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

much had been left unsaid owing to the proximity of the 
Assistant-Commissioner and others present. Gidleigh 
shrugged. The Assistant-Commissioner’s frown deepened. 

“I suppose I oughtn’t to butt in,” observed Jill cheer¬ 
fully, “but after all we don’t seem to have got anywhere 
much, do we? And as to finding out things at Bishops 
Takyll, it seems to me that Michael and I were the only 
ones to do it. He,” she pointed with innocent candor at 
Mr. Paunceforte, “went and got himself laid out the very 
first time he entered old Harnley’s house. If you call that 
clever, I don’t!” 

Michael chuckled; Inspector Gidleigh was amused; 
Colonel Tankerville frowned. 

“Your lack of experience, Miss Norton, does not excuse 
these interruptions. I must remind you that you are here 
to answer questions.” 

Jill grinned unabashed. A momentary silence fell. The 
Assistant-Commissioner tapped his desk irritably. De¬ 
spite his admirable summary of events, it was true that no 
useful line of investigation was indicated. His annoyance 
increased. 

Paunceforte began to stutter again: 

“In m-my opinion,” the youth observed, his teeth click¬ 
ing with exasperating monotony, “the p-p-p-person who 
d-d-d-d—” 

“Good gracious!” ejaculated Colonel Tankerville, “do, 
for God’s sake, learn to control that stammer! It gets 
worse every day. Now take a deep breath and try again!” 
Mr. Paunceforte obeyed. Christine continued to look as 
though such a personality within the walls of the C.I.D. 
were an enigma. Mr. Paunceforte alternately amused and 
puzzled her. Suddenly he met her eyes, and the expression 
in his struck a chord of memory. It was a curious, fleet¬ 
ing, familiar expression. Something like a—she searched 
her mind vaguely for a simile. 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 233 

But Mr. Paunceforte had risen to his feet. “With your 
p-p-permission,” he said, “I p-p-propose to f-f-fetch cer¬ 
tain notes I have m-m-made.” 

Colonel Tankerville nodded morosely. Inspector Gid- 
leigh sighed and changed his legs one over another. Chris¬ 
tine sat very still, staring with knit brows at the floor. 


Chapter XXVI 


For several minutes the silence was broken only by the 
impatient tap of Colonel Tankerville’s foot. The Assist¬ 
ant-Commissioner appeared to have shed some of his 
superb confidence. The Chief Inspector noted the change, 
divined the cause, and bided his time. Let Paunceforte 
stutter himself to a standstill with his egregious theories 
and clutterings of irrelevant details. Then Gidleigh would 
begin and say more in five minutes than Paunceforte in 
fifty. But it must be after the close of this absurd meet¬ 
ing. Although officially in charge he was not prepared to 
submit his observations to anyone but the Assistant-Com¬ 
missioner. Besides, there was the question of confidence. 
He had promised Miss Hemstone her secret should remain 
inviolate, unless it provided the clue to the mystery. Ah, 
would it do that? She was clever. She was more than 
clever! 

Gidleigh became aware of Christine Abbott’s eyes upon 
him. There was a curious expression in hers. A puzzled, 
half-baffled look. Like someone trying to recapture an 
elusive memory. 

The ting of the telephone bell at Colonel Tankerville’s 

234 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 235 

elbow made them all start. Tankerville snatched up the 
receiver. 

“Hullo! What? Speak up — Who?” Then he swung 
round towards Christine, scowling. “Call for you, Miss 
Abbott. An infernally bad line.” 

In surprise Christine took the receiver. The voice that 
came over the wire was indistinct, but there was an ur¬ 
gency that keyed up her hearing. 

“It is Dr. Mandeville speaking . . . Dr. Mandeville 
. . . my name does not matter . . . listen, please.” The 
tones were so spasmodic that Christine had to raise her 
finger to check a slight movement of Gidleigh’s. “I am 
speaking on behalf of a woman to whom I have been sum¬ 
moned. She is dying. Not more than an hour, at the most, 
to live. She has asked for you and begs that you will say 
nothing to the police, until after her death. Her name, she 
says, is Bernice Randall. Can you hear me? She has 
something of great importance to tell you. Seems to be 
quite friendless, poor creature.” 

The voice stopped momentarily as though its owner 
had turned away to verify something; then it continued, 
still almost inaudibly: 

“The address is No. 71A Millbrook Street. . . . Can 
you hear that? No? I will repeat it. 71A Millbrook 
Street, Millbrook Street. Millbrook Street. Vauxhall 
Bridge Road. You had better fake a taxi. I am giving her 
oxygen now.” 

The voice ceased. Christine faced the Assistant-Com¬ 
missioner, her brows knit. 

“I must go,” she said. “It is someone I know who is 
dying. I must go quickly.” 

Colonel Tankerville stood up. 

“In the circumstances, Miss Abbott, I cannot very well 
detain you. We have not, however, finished our inquiry 
here and I will ask you to return as soon as possible. If 


236 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

you find it impossible to return within the next hour, please 
telephone me.” 

Michael reached for his hat and stick. 

“I am going with you,” Michael said firmly. 

The Assistant-Commissioner intervened abruptly. 

“I am sorry,” he said, “I cannot allow Mr. Chillaton to 
leave yet. When Paunceforte returns it will be necessary 
to check his notes and resume our discussion. I am sure 
you will understand that. It is unfortunate, but I have 
no alternative.” 

Inspector Gidleigh looked up quizzically. 

“Might we know where you are going, Miss Abbott, or 
is it a personal matter?” 

Christine hesitated, why, she hardly knew. 

“It is—personal,” she answered, half under her breath. 
“Someone who is dying. Not a friend, but someone who 
needs me.” 

She went to the door as Michael opened it. Her lips 
started to frame a whispered sentence, but the Assistant- 
Commissioner stood close to them, frowming suspiciously, 
so she checked herself. The next moment she was speed¬ 
ing to the street. 

She got a taxi and gave the address. The taxi drew up 
outside a dingy shop with half drawn blinds in a few 
minutes. Beneath the blinds appeared a shabby miscel¬ 
lany of patent medicines, sponges, and dusty cakes of soap. 
A placard on the door announced reopening hours for 
Saturday afternoon. At the side of the door, another bore 
the number 71 A. 

“Shall I wait, miss?” the cab driver queried. Christine 
nodded and ran to the door. The door was ajar, and 
thrusting it open she saw that there was another within 
it. The house, manifestly, had been divided into two. 
Christine sought for a bell and found none. Then she 
rapped, but no answer came. 


THE CROOKS' SHEPHERD 237 

“Better go straight in, if you know the parties, miss,” 
the taxi driver advised. “Most of them upper floors don’t 
run to bells. Open the door and give a shout, miss.” 

Christine turned the handle, to discover that the door 
was unlocked. She called softly up the narrow stairway and 
fancied she heard a faintly murmured answer. The place 
was stuffy, almost fetid from lack of ventilation, no fit 
domicile for the elegant Bernice Randall. But perhaps 
its very dinginess had led the woman here. It would be a 
last refuge. 

She mounted the staircase to a landing. There were 
two doors here, one to the right and the other facing her. 
At hazard she tapped at the right hand door. Receiving 
no answer she tried the handle. The door was locked. 
She tapped on the other door, and again there was no 
response. Puzzled, Christine twisted the handle and 
pushed. The door gave, but the room within lay in com¬ 
plete darkness. For an instant she hesitated, then, to 
make certain, stepped forward and reached out for the 
switch. As the light flashed on she saw to her bewilderment 
an untidy litter of books and packing cases, and around 
the walls shelf upon shelf of dusty drug bottles. She 
had blundered into the chemist’s store room. 

At that moment she noted the closed shutters over the 
window. It gave her a curious twinge of alarm that the 
shutters were padlocked. Then someone pushed her gently 
into the room and the door behind her swung to. She 
heard the click of its key. 

Christine stood immobile for two tense seconds before 
deadly fear gripped her heart. She fumbled for the door 
handle. She pulled at it, gently at first, and then with a 
frenzy that was almost hysteria. She heard the sound of 
the taxi as it moved away; then she heard the sound of 
footsteps mounting the stairs towards her. 

The key turned again. Steadily, unhurriedly, the door 


238 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

opened. A hand in which something gleamed appeared, and 
then in one swift, concerted movement a man had swung 
into the room and closed the door behind him. At that 
white countenance with its screwed-up eyes under the 
wide-brimmed hat, the girl started back, her hands at her 
breasts. 

“You!” she stammered. 

He laughed, the sunken lips showing the red gums in¬ 
side. Then he drew in his breath in the familiar prelude 
to speech. 

“You know now,” he said. “But you know too late. I 
have forestalled you, you see.” He laughed again. “It 
was quick work, like all my work. I waste no time. I 
make no mistakes. Stand over there!” 

The thing in his hand gleamed again and Christine 
backed towards the opposite wall. She filled her lungs 
for the scream that should bring help, but as if divining 
her purpose he raised his hand. 

“I should not advise that. Because I wish to be merci¬ 
ful. Since you must die, it is better to die without pain.” 

The girl did not answer, but her eyes never left his. 

“Last time you saw me,” he went on, “it was in ignorance 
and safety. But there was a seed sown, chance words were 
dropped, something that would have germinated in your 
mind until knowledge blossomed. I saw that, because I 
have trained myself to watch the reactions of words upon 
people. You did not apprehend the implication of those 
words and it is possible that you would not have done so for 
many days. But my life and security depended on your 
continued failure to remember. So I have struck first. 

' Do you recall the words whose significance eluded you?” 

Christine nodded. Her voice came barely above a 
whisper. 

“Yes,” he said. “Take a deep breath before attempt¬ 
ing to speak.” 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 239 

He laughed, and took a deep breath. 

“Exactly. You did not know what those words conveyed 
to you, but they were buried in your inner consciousness. 
Now you understand that it has been the effort to disguise 
my stammer that accounted for such a peculiarity in my 
speech. That is, in the character of Crooks’ Shepherd, the 
only character in which you have hitherto known me. 
Needless to say, in the character in which you have not 
known me, I have allowed my stammer to become slightly 
emphasized. That peculiarity of controlled speech, aided 
by the removal of my artificial teeth and the immensely 
strong glasses I am obliged to wear completed a disguise 
far better than any artifice could conceive. The features 
of a sufferer from acute myopia without glasses are trans¬ 
formed into those of a different being. Unfortunately I 
am so hampered by this partial blindness that I propose 
now to regain part, at least, of my other identity.” 

The gasping voice ceased, though the toothless mouth 
still gaped in horrible amusement. One hand plunged into 
the overcoat pocket and drew out a pair of horn-rimmed 
spectacles with massively thick lenses. In another moment 
the bright, omniscient eyes of Henry Paunceforte regarded 
Christine Abbott. The wrinkled features became smooth. 

“I have little time to waste,” he said. “At the Yard 
they are waiting for my notes, so I must return. But you 
stay here. You understand that, don’t you. You under¬ 
stand that there is no animosity towards you, but that 
you cannot be permitted to live. Only you have seen me 
as the Crooks’ Shepherd. The others are dead. So it is 
necessary for my safety that you should be dead also.” 

He paused, whistling for breath again, and then turning 
to the door locked it and took out the key. Christine 
watched him in mute terror. 

“It is lucky that my friend the chemist gives himself a 
half-holiday on Saturdays,” he went on. “Lucky for you 


240 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

too, Miss Abbott. Otherwise it might not be so easy to do 
the thing without pain. This is what the police would call 
my accommodation address and the good chemist knows 
me merely as an occasional lodger. When he discovers you 
here he will suspect the occasional lodger and the police 
will send out a full description of the wanted man. Chief 
Inspector Gidleigh and I shall be very busy searching 
for clues to the murderer. It is amusing to reflect that I 
shall be hunting for myself.” He broke off with a chuckle 
and then became once more the serious, didactic Henry 
Paunceforte. 

“We are wasting time, Miss Abbott. As I have told 
you, I propose to employ humane means to end your life. 
Let us call it euthanasia. But to adopt euthanasia requires 
your co-operation. I cannot compel you to swallow a 
drug that shall silently end all your troubles—and mine. 
I can, however, offer you the alternative of a death that 
is also silent, but not painless.” He held up the gleaming 
knife as he spoke. It was a razor-edged hunting blade. 
“Do you understand? Either you will swallow the drug 
that I shall give you, or I will cut your throat with this. 
Be quick, please.” 

Christine’s mouth was dry. Words refused to come. She 
stared at the door haggardly. One thought only obsessed 
her. She must play for time. Stave him off. Keep him 
away from her until help came. But would help come? 
There was no help. No one knew. 

He came nearer, and a ray of light from the bulb 
overhead reflected from the blade into Christine’s eyes. 
She jerked herself away in terror until she stood with 
her back to the shelves. One of his arms was outstretched 
now, not to her throat, but up towards the shelf above 
her head. The girl slipped aside and made a frantic, futile 
grab at the hand carrying the knife. With an unguessed- 
at strength he twisted his wrist free. There was now a 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 241 

bottle containing a colorless fluid in his other hand. He 
set the bottle on a packing case, and beside it a chemical 
measure. He looked at Christine again. 

“It is chloral hydrate,” he said. “It kills by paralyzing 
the breathing and by its action on the heart muscle. But 
you will feel no pain—merely giddiness and drowsiness. 
That is euthanasia. You should be grateful to me.” 

Christine watched him, fascinated, as he drew out the 
glass stopper and prepared to tilt the bottle into the 
measure. Then she gathered her strength into one frenzied 
effort and leapt at him. 

He flung her off coolly without the loss of one single 
drop of the bottle’s contents. She came at him again, her 
breath sobbing with terror, and he laid down the bottle 
to confront her. There was now a hard glitter behind 
the thick lenses and the knife was raised to strike. 

“So you prefer it that way. Very well.” 

She backed away again towards the door. Reaching it, 
she hammered it madly on the panels. He gripped her by 
one shoulder and flung her aside. She flashed out a hand, 
knocked up the light switch and in the darkness struck 
him, with all her force, in the face. 

There was a tinkle as something fell to the ground and 
then the light flashed on again. Christine saw the white 
face peering myopically downwards. At her feet were 
Mr. Henry Paunceforte’s spectacles. With the speed of 
inspiration she brought her heel down on them and ground 
the lenses to powder. 

He uttered an exclamation of rage. She ran across 
the room, while he followed, arms outstretched, blunder¬ 
ing over the packing cases. She looked round desperately 
for something that could serve as a weapon and found 
nothing better than the bottles on the shelves. Seizing 
one, she hurled it at him, but it was a feeble effort. The 
bottle smashed itself against the opposite wall, wide of 


242 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

its mark, and an acrid smell arose. The next moment he 
was on her again. 

Half choking, half screaming, she managed miracu¬ 
lously to elude him once more and found herself against 
the opposite wall. There were no shelves nor bottles here, 
no weapon of any kind. She saw him screw up his eyes 
to focus her there, and then approach again. 

“It is useless/’ he said. “You cannot possibly escape 
me. I advise you for the last time not to force me to 
use this knife.” He stopped in the middle of the room 
and held it out. “It will hurt you excruciatingly,” he said. 
“Be advised, and choose—the other way.” Her mind 
began to work at unnatural speed. She saw him, death in 
his hand. Beyond him on the upturned packing case there 
was death also. She could read the label on the glass- 
stoppered bottle. . . . There were rows of bottles along 
the shelves that seemed to swim before her eyes. Then 
her vision cleared, sharpening into unearthly clarity. She 
would try. God helping her, she would try. 

Peering at her near-sightedly, Paunceforte became 
aware that she was moving towards him. Suddenly she 
made a feint, swung aside, dashed out the light-switch, 
and gained the opposite wall by the shelves. As he fumbled 
his way towards the switch a bottle hurtled through the 
air at him, and then another. One struck him between 
the shoulder blades. Again the light flashed on and he 
rapped out: 

“Fool! What can you do? It is only a question of time. 
But I will give you no more time. Since you will not be 
reasonable I must make your decision for you.” Again 
he came towards her, and this time she did not move. 
Instead, she stood there awaiting him, and her listless 
poise spoke of defeat. 

“Yes,” she said under her breath, “you are right. I can 
do nothing. Please—not that way—” 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 243 

He lowered the knife, and his lips parted in a grin. 

“You choose wisely, Miss Abbott. Very well.” 

Still with the knife poised ready in one hand he lifted 
the little bottle from the packing case and half filled 
the measure from it. Then he held out the glass. 

“Drink, Miss Abbott, and good-by.” 

Their eyes met—held each other. Christine raised the 
measure to her lips and drained it. 

She saw him move to the door and carefully collect the 
debris of the smashed spectacles. That would be evidence 
of his presence, of course. She saw him glance at her 
curiously, as he drew the key from his pocket. 

And then she sank to the floor. 


Chapter XXVII 


“You have kept us waiting,” the Assistant-Commis¬ 
sioner commented with displeasure, “for close on three 
quarters of an hour.” 

Mr. Paunceforte inclined his head in respectful ac¬ 
knowledgment of the rebuke and seated himself. Chief- 
Inspector Gidleigh, staring at him in distaste, observed 
that Paunceforte was wearing a different pair of spectacles. 
The Chief Inspector’s trained eyes noticed also without 
significance that there was a damp mark on the shoulder 
of Mr. Paunceforte’s coat. A very faint smell of ammonia 
permeated the office. It looked as though this over-nice 
young man had dallied to remove some little stain from 
his coat. Gidleigh sniffed contemptuously. 

“I m-m-much regret the d-d-delay, sir,” Paunceforte 
began. “Unfortunately, I b-b-broke my g-glasses and was 
obliged to g-get another p-pair.” 

The Assistant-Commissioner snorted irritably. “Good 
God! Do you mean to say you’ve kept us waiting here 
all this time for that!” 

He snatched back his cuff to glance at his wrist watch. 
“Unless Miss Abbott returns within the next ten minutes 
we shall have to adjourn this meeting. I should, of course, 

244 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 245 

have declined to permit Miss Abbott to absent herself at 
such a time.” 

Michael frowned uneasily. A peculiar obsession had 
taken hold of him that Christine’s absence held some 
deeper significance than a mere call to a dying friend. 
He should have insisted on going with her. And yet what 
possible danger could threaten the girl? It was not in Chris¬ 
tine Abbott’s power to disclose information that might en¬ 
danger the secret enemy. Over and over again she had 
insisted that she knew nothing. Nothing. Her part had 
been played. She had come out of it with clean hands, 
thank God, a restored reputation. They had granted a 
free pardon and her life would begin anew with him. He 
smiled to himself at that, but the next moment frowned 
again. He should have gone with her. And yet she was no 
fool. He began to wonder who this dying friend could be. 
She had very nearly told him, and then checked herself. 
He found himself wondering about her people. Her mother 
and father were dead, but there must be relatives. What 
sort of people would they be? 

Jill was looking at him thoughtfully, and, as though 
she read his mind, she nodded. 

“I don’t like this, Michael. Chris shouldn’t have gone 
alone.” Jill’s voice was meant to be too quiet to reach any 
other ears but his. But Gidleigh heard. 

“What harm can come to her?” he asked levelly. Un¬ 
less—” he paused. 

“Unless what?” Michael faced him abruptly. 

“We have to be frank, sir, even if it hurts. Unless 
she’s mixed up in this, after all.” 

Michael shook his head obstinately, and Jill’s red lips 
curved in scorn. 

“I’m ready to admit it is more likely I am wrong,” Gid¬ 
leigh said patiently. “But there’s something here I don’t 
understand. Something working against us. A sort of 


246 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

hunch I get at times, that almost make me smell a crook— 
Um—” He paused to glower somberly across the office. 
Paunceforte’s teeth were clicking in his frantic efforts 
to frame a coherent sentence. Colonel Tankerville was 
bad-temperedly declining to listen even to his protege 
just now. 

“That will do now, Paunceforte. Be good enough to hold 
yourself in readiness for another conference at short no¬ 
tice.” The Assistant-Commissioner turned towards Jill 
and Michael. “The same applies to you, if you please. 
Miss Abbott, I understand, is staying with Miss Norton. 
Very good. It is possible that by our next meeting some 
news may have come through regarding the missing 
woman, Bernice Randall, though I incline to the view of 
Paunceforte here, that she will be in no better position to 
tell us anything than the rest of you.” 

“It is really astounding,” the Assistant-Commissioner 
concluded, “that so little useful information is available 
from people who have been in actual contact with these 
criminals. As matters stand we can make no move in any 
direction.” 

In the study of his well appointed service flat in 
Half Moon Street, Mr. Henry Paunceforte, Master of 
Arts and Criminologist, sat and wrote a letter. The shaded 
desk lamp threw a white light on the paper before him, 
lent a sickly greenish tinge to his thin features, and left 
the remainder of the room in studious obscurity. The faint 
scratching of his pen was the only sound to disturb the 
stillness. 

It was a longish epistle that had occupied him for 
many pleasantly unhurried moments:— 

“He believes that the plan was bungled, that its organizer 
is in fear of his life. Does not that amuse you? I will own 
that I understood the kind of fear he meant when I re- 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 247 

alized that C.A. was beginning to stare at me. . . . Sooner 
or later the revelation would have come to her. But I 
was too quick. It was an inspiration that made me tele¬ 
phone from your deathbed, my dear. That amuses you, 
surely? 

“When all is said, I cannot call it a perfect piece of work. 
It is not the flawless scheme I had planned. That is 
thanks to the incalculable human element. What fools 
those others were to have selected knowledge and death 
rather than ignorance and security and wealth. Only M. 
was sensible. Eventually he will profit. . . . Wealth! 
Enough even for you, my dear, and that is saying a great 
deal. I shall love to see you as the princess you were meant 
to be. But be careful for the present. So much from 
the Bank at Cannes: so much from the Bank at Nice. So 
much from Bordighera and Budapest and Lisbon. You 
will find that there is an embargo on the export of money 
in these countries. It does not matter. With the credits 
you have in each you will be free to move about. And 
then, one glorious day I will join you. But not just yet. 
Not for six months, at the least. It is essential for me 
to play the game a little longer. Then I will resign and the 
fool, G., will clap his silly fat hands, and go and arrest 
Miss H. 

“Was there ever anyone so well equipped as the man to 
whom you have joined your life for this great success? 
I do not say it in any spirit of boasting; it is a simple state¬ 
ment of fact by one who sees himself very clearly—as 
clearly as he sees the qualities of others. When you re¬ 
flect that I have used my abnormal powers to make myself 
acquainted with the minutest detail in the lives and meth¬ 
ods of criminals, taking the infinite pains that in other 
professions would be hailed as the manifestations of genius. 
You will understand that no matter what obstacles might 
beset my path I was bound to succeed. My knowledge of 


248 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

prison systems alone is more complete by far than that of 
any prison governor. . . . 

“It is curious that those researches into C.N.’s history 
should have revealed that his likeness to H. was no acci¬ 
dent. Here, again, a card was placed in my hands that 
only I could use to its fullest extent. G. will watch Miss 
H. until the crack of doom. 

Mr. Paunceforte laid down his pen and smiled pensively. 
There was humor in that last reflection. . . . He re¬ 
sumed:— 

“Mine has been the fortune that comes to those who earn 
it by scrupulous attention to detail, and the same quality 
has enabled me to turn apparent reverses to good account. 
Thus, the unforeseen intervention of M.C. and our sub¬ 
sequent failure to make him go away or otherwise render 
him ineffectual, Miss H.’s concern for her son, so desper¬ 
ate that she must needs sink everything to warn him when 
my anonymous letter fished S. out of the tarn. These 
obscure intuitions of obscure people clouded the issue to 
perfection. It is pleasant to dwell on that. Suspicion lies 
on her, and on the dead. Even on H. himself. On no one 
else. Not a breath. They can learn nothing. Nothing. 
The last thread has been cut. 

“Do not write to me here, for the present. And be pa¬ 
tient. It is hard for me, also, to be patient. 

The scratching pen paused as a knock came at the 
outer door of the flat and Paunceforte rose to answer it. 
To his surprise it was Gidleigh. The Chief Inspector en¬ 
tered the hall and took off his bowler hat. He looked tired 
and concerned. 

“You’ll excuse me butting in like this, Paunceforte, es¬ 
pecially as we don’t exactly—um—see eye to eye about 
things. But there’s been a fresh development, a very 
serious one, and I’d like your opinion.” 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 249 

Mr. Paunceforte smiled acidly, and reclosed the door. 

“B-by all means, Inspector. Though I d-d-don’t sup¬ 
pose you’ll like my opinion when you g-g-get it.” 

Removing his overcoat the visitor hung it up. Paunce¬ 
forte, preceding him into the study, carefully placed in a 
drawer the letter he had been writing and re-seated him¬ 
self, fingertips together in an attitude of didactic atten¬ 
tion. Gidleigh fished in his pockets and frowned absently. 

“Must be in my overcoat pocket,” he said. “My pipe. 
You’ll excuse me one moment.” 

He made his way back to the hall and collected the pipe. 
Re-entering the study he sank into a chair and began to 
fill the pipe. 

“You’ll remember,” he began, “that during our con¬ 
ference this afternoon there was a telephone call for Miss 
Abbott?” 

Mr. Paunceforte nodded. So that was the serious fresh 
development. He had been wondering when the discovery 
would be made. 

“At the time,” Gidleigh went on, “it did not seem pos¬ 
sible that any danger could threaten Miss Abbott. There 
was no conceivable reason to suppose that the poor girl 
could be added to the list of people murdered by the 
Crooks’ Shepherd. I, I own that this business has 
shaken me somewhat, Paunceforte.” The Inspector passed 
his hand across his forehead. “It is awful to think that 
this child went from the Yard, from the police stronghold 
to that fate.” 

Mr. Paunceforte’s eyes gleamed behind their thick 
lenses, and the green light illumined his pallid cheeks 
like an exultant spirit of evil. But Gidleigh was not look¬ 
ing at him. 

“This is shocking, Gidleigh. G-good Heavens, what 
n-n-next!” Mr. Paunceforte said in horrified tones. “How 
d-d-did you f-f-find her?” 


250 THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 

“It was young Chillaton and Miss Norton. Apparently 
they could not get away from the idea that there was some¬ 
thing behind that telephone call. Chillaton went to the 
taxi stand and succeeded in finding the driver who had 
taken Miss Abbott to an address in Millbrook Street. It 
proved to be premises above a chemist’s shop. The shop 
was closed, and getting no answer to his knocking young 
Chillaton broke in, a thing he had no right to do, but, 
poor devil, I don’t blame him.” 

Gidleigh paused, his mouth grim. Mr. Paunceforte leant 
forward. 

“And he found Miss Abbott, you say? Murdered?” 

Gidleigh’s face was working oddly, and Paunceforte 
stared at him with veiled contempt. Emotion in a detec¬ 
tive. Pah! Paunceforte tapped the desk impatiently. 

“Tell me the details, Inspector, if you want my help.” 

He did not hear the door open, and in the gloom he did 
not see the figure standing there. Until, with a shrug at 
the Inspector’s seeming speechlessness he sat Sack in his 
chair. And then he saw —the wraith of Christine Abbott. 

The screech that rose from his throat died into a 
strangled gasp as he saw his mistake. His hand dropped 
to a drawer in the desk. 

“Stop that!” snarled Gidleigh. His own hand shot 
upwards as he spoke, and something glinted in it. A 
deadly, breathless silence hung. Pale as death, Christine 
moved into the room. At her side stood Michael Chilla¬ 
ton. Paunceforte looked at her as though he saw only 
her in the room. 

“You drank it!” he said, under his breath. “And you 
live!” 

The girl shook her head. 

“I drank, but not Chloral Hydrate.” 

Paunceforte smiled faintly. 

“I see. And so you changed the bottles?” 


THE CROOKS’ SHEPHERD 251 

“Yes.” 

“That was clever of you, and insanely foolish of me. 
Let me see, it was after you smashed my glasses.” He 
spoke as though the discussion were one of merely aca¬ 
demic interest. “And then, I remember, you switched 
out the light. While I fumbled for the switch you threw 
a bottle at me, the Chloral Hydrate?” 

“Yes.” 

“And then you substituted another bottle on the pack¬ 
ing case, something that your good eyes had seen to be 
harmless. In those few seconds you had memorized its 
position on the shelf. Am I right?” 

“Yes.” 

“I see. I congratulate you.” Paunceforte made a little 
half bow, a strangely courteous gesture. “I ask you to 
believe that from first to last of these—operations—I 
have been actuated by malice to no one. Do you believe 
that?” 

“Yes,” said Christine. And, strangely, she did. 

“Thank you,” answered Paunceforte. 

Then he turned and held out his wrists to Chief In¬ 
spector Gidleigh. 
























































